


We Were Fools

by SigmaCreations



Category: Spooks | MI-5
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-02-13 00:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 34,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12971964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SigmaCreations/pseuds/SigmaCreations
Summary: Set in after 8.03, Harry's not himself and Ruth intends to find out why. Sadly, the characters don't belong to me, only the words in this story are my own. Hope you enjoy and reviews are always very much appreciated. Cheers, S.C.





	1. Chapter 1

She finds him exactly where she expects him to be – on the roof of Thames House, hands deep in his pockets, gazing across the familiar skyline of the city they both love. She's sure there's something bothering him today, but she's not been able to figure out what it might be. Maybe it's the approaching Christmas season – he always used to get a little more irritable and maudlin at this time of year.

Silently, she moves across the roof to stand beside him, staring out cross the familiar view as her mind floods with memories of the two of them standing here – together. Seven years they've known each other, but they've only shared this space for a fraction of that time – maybe a few times a month for only three of those years, what probably amounts to a total of twenty-four hours or so. Not a very long time, in the grand scheme of things.

“You okay?” she asks, turning her head to look at him, wondering how twenty-four hours with this man has come to mean so much to her.

He nods, but doesn't look at her, keeping his eyes trained on the horizon where the sun is setting.

“What's the matter, Harry?” she tries again. “The operation was a resounding success. The Home Secretary was practically singing our praises.”

He makes a face. “The Home Secretary singing. Now there's something I hope to never see.”

She smiles, watching as he turns to see her reaction. Their eyes meet and hold for a moment before he turns away again. Silence settles between them once more, but she doesn't press him for an answer. She just hopes her presence by his side is as comforting for him as it is for her.

“It's my father,” he murmurs eventually. “He passed away last week.”

“Oh Harry,” she breathes, turning to face him. “I'm so sorry. Why didn't you say anything?”

“I didn't want to be put on leave. I needed to be here.”

“I meant to me,” she replies softly, feeling a little hurt if she's honest though she knows she has no right to. It's only been a few weeks since they sat on their bench together, talking about Jo, and he'd told her that there will always be something else. He hasn't moved on and she doesn't know how that makes her feel exactly. Pleasure, guilt, fear, and grief are all jumbled together when she thinks about them, and she knows that until she manages to unpick it all and get it sorted in her mind, she has no right to expect anything at all from him. He's given her far more than she deserves already.

He turns to look at her, but doesn't reply, studying her with his sad, soulful eyes. God, his eyes do things to her, speak to her in a way that no other pair of eyes ever has. He smiles a sad, little smile and turns away again, saying, “He had a flat in an assisted living place, out in Wimbledon. I've arranged to go round this evening to sort out his things. Catherine was going to come with me, but she rung earlier to say she can't make it.”

“I'm free this evening if you'd like...” She tails off, feeling rather foolish. If he'd wanted her sympathy or help, then surely he'd have told her about his father.

He looks at her again, his eyes softening as he murmurs, “Thank you,” a note of gratitude in his voice. “But I'll be fine. I'm sure you have better things to do with your time.”

“Not really,” she confesses. “All that awaits me is a small, cold flat. My plans for this evening consist of a bit of telly, perhaps a glass of wine, and some beans on toast for supper.” She gives him a crooked, little smile, a little embarrassed to have revealed the extent of her sad existence. Not that he'd have expected anything more really after everything that's happened recently and the life-style they lead as spies. She's sure most of his evenings are rather similar to hers though probably more luxurious – a glass of expensive whisky instead of the tea or cheap wine that usually accompany her dinners, a large, well-heated flat or house, and a proper take-away for supper, a bite at his club, or perhaps even something home-made by his housekeeper. He probably has a housekeeper with the hours he keeps, she decides, even if she's only there briefly everyday to clean and cook and take his little dog for a walk. Does he still have Scarlet, she wonders, struck by how much she really doesn't know about him now.

His eyes are full of gentle understanding as he gazes at her and murmurs softly, “In that case, I _would_ appreciate the company. I confess, I'm finding it hard to face it alone.”

She smiles in relief, her heart warming at the vulnerability he's showing her, the trust. It's funny how that hasn't changed despite her long absence and, if she's honest, it's about the only thing that's kept her going in the aftermath of losing George and Nico, paradoxical though that might be. Getting lost in her work, making a difference, protecting the innocent – atoning for not being able to protect those who'd mattered most – and being valued despite her failures, being trusted by Harry in spite of it all is, too often, the only thing that gives her the strength to get up in the morning. He's her rock – the one, fixed point in her ever-changing world, always there for her, standing tall, solid, and sure though he's constantly battered by the storms they weather everyday. There had not been a day during her exile when she hadn't thought of him, wished him safe and happy. She doubts they'll be a day in the rest of her life when she'll fail to think of him, when not even a tiny sliver of her heart will no longer belong to him.

She blinks and smiles, bringing her wandering thoughts under control again and blurting out, “I've just got a couple of things to finish downstairs and then I'm all yours.” She drops her gaze, silently kicking herself for her choice of words and feeling suddenly as flustered as she used to get around him in the past, when she was young and naive and so very much in love with him. _Was it only three years ago?_ It feels like a lifetime.

She clears her throat and adds hastily, “Twenty minutes should cover it,” as she glances quickly up at him and hastily turns away, unsure of the emotion she sees lurking in his gaze and suddenly feeling a desperate need to escape him.


	2. Chapter 2

“What was he like, your father?” he hears her ask and, when he glances across at her, he finds her keenly watching him. He can't quite believe that she's here, providing moral and emotional support to him after everything that happened with her husband and child, after everything he's done, or failed to do to protect her.

_I'm all yours._

How those words had pierced him earlier, flooding him with equal parts pleasure and pain, hope and longing. He has been hers for so long now – his whole being crying out for her, for her presence by his side, her wisdom, her goodness and her courage, for her beautiful smile, her musical laughter, her gentle gaze, and her soft kiss. If he had Ruth, he knows that there is nothing he could not do, nothing he could not face, nothing he could not conquer. But she's not ready, might never be ready, might never truly want him as he does her.

He shakes his head gently to clear it, to dispel the longing in his heart, reminding himself that she'd move on out there, had come back with a husband in tow – a husband he'd failed to protect for her, a man she'd clearly cared for deeply, a good, kind man, she'd said. And even if there are some lingering feelings for him buried in her heart, it's far too soon to be expecting anything more than friendship between them – she's still in shock, still grieving, still heartbroken, and he needs to remember that.

He clears his throat, not sure what to say. His father had never been an easy man and thinking of him has never brought him peace. “He was a banker, a hard-worker, determined, successful. He set high standards and he held himself and others to them. He was... distant – a hard man to read and get to know. We were not particularly close.” He glances at her again and finds her smiling. “What?”

“Oh nothing,” she replies. “Just something about apples and trees.”

He smiles, conceding the point and feeling lighter somehow, her gentle humour lifting his heart. “He loved my mother,” he finds himself saying before he can think better of it, “worshipped the ground she walked on. I never understood what she saw in him. She was so warm and open where he was always serious and preoccupied.”

“Maybe he was different when she met him, or _perhaps_ she just saw beyond all that,” she murmurs softly and he doesn't dare look at her, his heart beating double-time at her words and the gentle tone of her voice.

He clears his throat. “Perhaps you're right,” he concedes. “She _did_ have a way with him. When she was near, he was almost a different man. He was more relaxed. He became... happy. He smiled and laughed. I only ever heard him laugh when she was near. I don't think he's laughed since the day she died.”

“That's so sad,” she replies, turning to stare out the window.

“Yes,” he agrees, allowing a silence to settle between them as he negotiates another roundabout, thinking of his father and how he must have felt to lose his wife so young. He'd spent the last thirty-five years alone, pining the loss of the woman he'd loved, and he finds he feels a spark of sudden compassion and understanding for him. He knows very well what it is to lose the love of your life, and as he turns to look at her, sitting quietly beside him, he can't help the surge of gratitude that overwhelms him. She's here. She might not be _with_ him in every way he would like her to be, but she's alive and she's near him once more, and no matter how painful it had been to discover she'd moved on or how jealous he feels when he thinks of the doctor and all that he'd shared with her, he _is_ grateful to have her back – grateful and so happy. His life is so much better now that she is in it again.

“What?” she asks, giving him a puzzled frown at his scrutiny.

“Thank you for coming with me,” he murmurs in reply.

She smiles, eyes softening as she looks at him. “I'm glad I could help.” Her gaze clouds over and she looks out the window again, his heart constricting to see her pain. “I know I was much younger when I lost my father, but I don't think it's ever easy to lose a parent.”

“No,” he agrees, feeling suddenly scared that she's thinking about _him_ now and the boy, Nico, “though, I confess, this is much easier than losing my mother was... Or Ben.”

She turns to look at him again, her eyes full of concern. “Oh that's right. I keep forgetting about your brother,” she says, then looks a little alarmed at her words and hastens to explain herself, which is completely unnecessary, as far as he's concerned, though it serves to endear her more to him than ever, and he spends several moments smiling inwardly as he tries not to look at her, lest she read how hopelessly besotted with her he is and take it the wrong way.

 _Please, Dad,_ he pleads silently with a confidence born from his new understanding of his father and the similarities between them, while she stumbles through her apology and he tightens his grip on the steering wheel, _help me find a way. Help me find the right words, get the timing right. Help me not let her slip through my fingers again. I need her._

He doesn't remember the last time he asked his father for anything – he was probably a child and his father probably said no – but it feels good to do it now and he feels calmer somehow afterwards. He doesn't really believe in an afterlife, but he's also not arrogant enough to dismiss the possibility entirely. It's comforting to think of his parents together again and that they might continue to watch over him, even if he _is_ a grown man and perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Ben too. Maybe Ruth's exile was all Ben's doing, he thinks wryly. Ben was always jealous of him and a prankster, though now he thinks about it, having Ruth come back with George would have been more his style rather than taking her away in the first place. He shakes his head at the bizarre turn his thoughts have taken and focuses his attention back on Ruth.

“It's alright, Ruth,” he says, smiling fondly across at her. “I know what you meant.”

She nods, her cheeks red as she drops her gaze to her lap where her hands are wringing together. “Sorry.”

He smiles gently, then turns his gaze back on the road. “We're almost there,” he says.


	3. Chapter 3

The place is even more up market than she expects and she can't help wondering just how rich Harry's father was. She's not really thought about it before, but it makes sense with him having been a banker and Harry having gone to a private school and then Oxford.

“He liked tennis. Got tickets to Wimbledon every year,” Harry says, walking round the car to meet her on the pavement, and she realises that some of her thoughts must show on her face, “and he was accustomed to a certain... standard of living.”

“It's lovely,” she manages to say, meeting his gaze briefly before looking around again, for the gardens and buildings are quite something even in the dark, illuminated as they are with tasteful, warm lighting, the holiday lights in the windows, trees and bushes adding an almost magical effect.

Harry hums and leads the way to the reception where they have him sign some paperwork and hand him a set of keys and a sheet of paper.

“This way,” he murmurs softly, stepping back out of the building and walking towards his car again. “It'll be faster if I drive us round and easier to load up the car later.”

So they get back into his car and he drives them round to another building that looks even nicer than the last. “This is the assisted living section, rather than the nursing home. Dad had heart trouble, but could mostly take care of himself. He enjoyed his independence, such as it was at his age.”

“And the tennis,” she smiles. He must have been in his late eighties – she's pretty sure he was born in 1922 if memory serves.

“Yes,” he agrees, parking the car and getting out.

“Did he... own this place?” she asks as she gazes about her whilst Harry retrieves some folded boxes from the boot of his car that he somehow manages to tuck under one arm, refusing her help when she offers it.

“The flat, yes,” Harry confirms. “It'll be sold, of course, and he left most of his estate to Catherine and Graham.” She looks up at him at that, so he adds, “He probably thought I had no need for it.” She nods. “Which I don't.”

She smiles. “It's nice for them. They could use it to buy a car, or a flat, or a mansion, or something.”

He laughs. “I'm not sure it'll stretch to a mansion, but yes, assuming they use it wisely, they're both at an age where it should give them some independence.”

“You're worried they'll squander it?” she asks once she's slipped through the door he holds open for her and they're walking side by side down the hall to the lift.

“Well, Catherine was talking about financing another documentary just last month and Graham...” he tails off and turns to stare out the window while they wait for the lift. “Of course, I worry, Ruth. I always worry about them. Part and parcel of being a parent, I'm afraid.”

“I know,” she murmurs, dropping her gaze for a moment as the memories of Nico come flooding back and the emotions threaten to overwhelm her. This still happens to her far too often – she's doing fine one moment, and then the slightest, little thing can throw her off balance and it all comes flooding back – and she can't help wondering how long it will go on, how long _she_ can go on like this.

“Christ, Ruth,” she hears him mutter beside her. “I'm sorry. I didn't think.”

She lifts her hand to her eyes and quickly wipes the moisture away, giving him a quick, slightly watery smile before stepping into the lift. He follows her mutely, looking retched, and she can't help how her heart goes out to him in the midst of her own pain. _Poor Harry._ It's not his fault really. _She_ created this mess, not he.

She reaches for his free hand, and when he looks up in surprise, she gives it a gentle squeeze. He smiles tentatively and squeezes her hand back, and it surprises her how much pleasure the sight brings her. She's spent most of her life challenging herself and doing things she loves – reading, singing, analysing, solving puzzles, testing her limits, becoming a spy – but during her time away, with George and Nico, she'd really discovered the joy of giving, of making others happy. In the last few months, after losing them, she's gone back to her old ways, to pushing herself, giving everything she's got to the job and forgetting about the people in her life. _No, forgetting is the wrong word. Overlooking. Pushing them aside._ The pain had been too great, the guilt – survivor's guilt – too overwhelming, but tonight – being here with Harry, _for_ Harry – she finds she can experience the pleasure again without the heartache and the guilt overwhelming her. It feels good to be there for him, to ease his pain a little, perhaps even make him happy for a moment or two, and she finds herself wondering if maybe this is it – the answer to her grief – taking the time to be with the people she loves and make them happy. It's almost Christmas. She should ring her mum, maybe get in touch with one or two friends from before, tell them that she's not dead and go from there. Maybe she could join a choir again – she loves the music at this time of year especially.

He releases her hand as the lift comes to a stop and they step out, walking down the hall to the last door on the left. “This is it,” he says and unlocks the door, opens it, and motions her inside.

She feels like she's stepped back in time as she enters, the furniture, the décor, the atmosphere of the room taking her back to her childhood, and she can't help smiling as she gazes around her, charmed by her surroundings and wishing, for a moment, that they were here on a visit and she could meet Harry's father, find out how much of the charm of the room is due to the charisma of its former owner.

She can feel Harry watching her, so she turns to look at him. “It's lovely,” she says, but he doesn't reply, just makes a non-committal noise at the back of his throat. Perhaps he doesn't agree with her – he clearly didn't feel close to his father. The way he'd described him makes her think that James Pearce was more a disciplinarian than a nurturer and probably pushed his sons too hard as children, especially Harry, who was the eldest.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says. “I'll make us some tea.”

He puts down the boxes and disappears through the doorway across the room, into the small kitchen she glimpses beyond it. She thinks about following him to help, but decides against it, looking around her once more instead.

She spies the record player near a bookshelf and goes over to it, noting with some interest that there is already a record in it, so she switches it on, lifts the needle and lowers it onto its surface. The music that fills the room is not familiar, but it's older, from the sixties, she guesses and a look at the cover of the single lying nearby confirms it. “All of a sudden” - 1969.

 

 _We were fools, you and I,_  
Now we know it.  
We stood still as the days moved along.  
Love was ours, but our eyes didn't show it.  
Suddenly, we can see we were wrong.

 

She's swaying her hips to the music, caught up in its seductive rhythm and Matt Monro's voice, but as the lyrics catch her attention she stops, her heart suddenly pounding, her mind filled with one word, one thought, one memory – Harry.

 

 _All of a sudden, this world's yours and mine._  
All of a sudden, water tastes like wine.  
Now every moment there are songs to sing,  
All of a sudden, everything.

 

The words, the music, everything about this song speaks to her of him, of the feelings she'd had after their date – so long ago now – when he'd dropped her at her door and softly kissed her goodnight, the magic, the thrill of it, the giddy euphoria of standing in the hall afterwards, leaning against the back of the door and grinning like a fool, of dancing into the kitchen, scooping up her tabby and burying her face in his fur, unable to contain the exuberance, the elation, the glee as she'd laughed and spun around the room, stopping by the sink, breathless, to put him down and get herself some water.

It _had_ tasted like wine in that moment.

 

 _Let's not talk of all the times we've been lonely,_  
But let us speak of the times we will know.  
From today, I will live for you only,  
Wish I'd said all these things long ago.  
  
All of a sudden, this world's yours and mine.  
All of a sudden, water tastes like wine.  
Now every moment there are songs to sing,  
All of a sudden, everything.

 

She lifts her hand to her mouth, momentarily overcome by emotion, blinking back tears as she swallows hard. She doesn't know what this means – yet another layer to add to the rest and unpick later, or possibly, not at all at this rate. Every minute she spends with Harry seems to generate more _stuff_ between them, so that she doesn't know, any more, where to even begin to unpick it all – all their history, all these emotions, the tangle of the web stretched between them, binding them together, yet also keeping them apart. Now is not the time though, certainly. His eyes are on her back – she can feel it – so she hastens to pull herself together and turn to face him.

He's leaning against the door frame, his face a mask of control, watching her, his fingers wrapped around a glass of whisky.

 _So much for tea_ , she thinks.

“It was my mother's favourite,” he volunteers after a moment.

“The song?” she asks, relieved that her voice is steady.

“Yes. And the singer – Matt Monro. Monro was her maiden name. She loved that they had that in common, even though she'd changed hers when she married my father and his was just a stage name. Dad bought her that record for her birthday the year it was released,” he continues, a far away look in his eyes. “It must have been on a Friday or a Saturday that year because I had plans to meet up with friends. I remember walking past the living room to the front door and seeing them dancing together. They seemed so happy.” His eyes focus back on her face and he smiles crookedly at her and looks down at his drink, bringing it to his lips and taking a large gulp.

She's not quite sure what to say to that. She's never heard him reminisce about his childhood before, nor has he opened up to her this much since they talked of Paris and New York and his plans for the Grand Tour. But before she can get her thoughts in order and reply, there's a knock at the door that has both of them turning towards it with a frown. She glances at Harry again, a question in her eyes, but he just shakes his head and moves into the living room, setting his glass down on the table before crossing to the door and swinging it open.

“Hello, Mr Pearce,” a woman about her age – perhaps a little younger – with bright, blue eyes and dark, curly hair says cheerfully. “I'm Rachel McBride. I don't know if you remember-”

“Yes,” Harry replies. “Of course. You work here.”

“That's right,” Rachel smiles, then her eyes fill with sorrow as she adds, “I'm so sorry for your loss, Sir.”

“Thank you.”

“I liked your father,” she adds. “He was a quiet man, kept to himself mostly, but he was always well spoken and kind, a true gentleman and we will all miss him very much.”

A sob comes from somewhere behind her and she sees Harry's shoulders stiffen though she can't see where the sound came from until Rachel steps back and slips her arm around an older woman's shoulders, who's standing in the doorway of the flat across the hall. “There, there, Agatha,” she hears Rachel murmur before she turns to Harry again and explains, “Agatha was good friends with your father, weren't you, love?”

“Oh yes,” the old lady replies, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “He was a good man, James was. We used to keep each other company of an afternoon.” She smiles up at Harry, who nods. “You look just like him, you know,” she adds after a moment. “Except you're a little taller.”

“I know,” Harry replies.

“He was ever so proud of you,” Agatha continues. “My Harry this, and my Harry that. He was ever so chuffed when you received your knighthood.”

Ruth can't see the expression on Harry's face, but she can guess his feelings. She wants to reach out to him, but doesn't want to intrude or give anything away. He'll be wearing his spook mask and will not appreciate her making him look vulnerable.

“Knighthood?” Rachel murmurs in wonder.

“Oh yes,” Agatha beams, warming to her subject. “ _Sir_ Harry, he said, for services rendered to the realm. He never did tell me exactly what you do, but he always said it was terribly important.”

“I had no idea,” Rachel replies, looking a little worried and thankfully cutting across Agatha's implied questions. “I'm so sorry, Sir Harry.”

“It's fine,” Harry replies, trying to put her at ease. “Really. Most people call me Harry.”

“Right,” Rachel says, but she doesn't look convinced and an awkward silence settles around them for a moment. “Anyway,” she adds after a beat, “we just wanted to pass on our condolences, didn't we, Agatha?” Agatha nods and Ruth has the feeling that it should be them who are passing on condolences to _her_. It looks like she and Harry's father were good friends. “So we'll leave you to it,” Rachel finishes, looking like she's struggling with how to address Harry now.

“Thank you both,” Harry replies, shaking each of their hands in turn. Agatha pats his hand and turns away, going back into her own flat and closing the door behind her after Rachel tells her she'll be right there.

“I'm sorry for the intrusion, Sir,” she says in a low voice, clearly having recovered her equilibrium. “It was the sound of the record. Your father used to play that song of an evening when he was alone and Agatha was quite convinced that he'd come back, so I thought-”

“Ah,” Harry replies, giving her an understanding smile. “I see. It's perfectly alright. They seem to have been good friends,” he adds.

“They were,” she agrees. “They used to have their tea together most days and play cards. He was a smart man, your father. He tried to set up a bridge club with Agatha and the Harrises from the next floor down, but I'm afraid he got a little frustrated by the level of the game.”

“I can imagine that. He used to play bridge with my mother,” Harry says, surprising her. It's not like him to share personal information and it makes her realise how much the loss of his father is affecting him, despite his best efforts to hide it.

“He used to talk about her sometimes,” Rachel says sympathetically. “He loved her very much, I think.”

“Yes,” is Harry's monosyllabic reply.

“Anyway,” Rachel says. “I must get on. It was nice to see you again, Sir Harry.”

“And you.”

“Take care now,” she smiles and turns to go, but Harry stops her.

“I wonder, Ms McBride,” he says, “if you think Agatha would like a memento, something to remember my father by.”

“I'm sure she would love that,” Rachel beams. “That's very generous of you.”

“Well, I cannot possibly keep all his things. Perhaps the playing cards they used, or the tea set? Would you care to help me choose something?”

“I'd be happy to,” Rachel smiles and steps into the room as Harry moves aside to allow her to enter.

“This is Ms Evershed,” Harry introduces her.

“Ruth,” she corrects, moving closer and shaking Rachel's hand.

“Pleased to meet you,” Rachel replies, looking much more at ease now.

“And you.”

“If you could point to where he kept these things, that would be very helpful,” Harry suggests. “As no doubt, you know, I did not visit my father often.”

Rachel turns to him with a sympathetic smile. “Of course. It _is_ hard to make the time in our busy lives to see family sometimes, isn't it? I know I never visit my parents nearly as often as I should.”

“Neither do I,” she volunteers softly, liking this soft-spoken woman all the more for trying to make Harry feel better.

Rachel smiles at her, then helps Harry locate the set of playing cards James used with Agatha that are nestled in a beautiful wooden box and which he decides to give her. While he's gone next door with Rachel, Ruth makes herself useful assembling the boxes – after finding the tea Harry's made in the kitchen, that's a little colder than she'd like, but still drinkable, and putting the kettle on to make some more – and when he's not back by the time she's finished, she decides to tackle James's clothes, seeing as it's unlikely, in her opinion, that Harry will want to keep any of them.


	4. Chapter 4

He finds her in the bedroom, his father's clothes spread out on the bed in neat piles, humming to herself as she folds and arranges them in some of the boxes he's brought with them.

“Hello,” she says. “I thought I'd make myself useful. I hope you don't mind. I thought his clothes would be the easiest place to start. I didn't think you'd want to keep any of them.”

“No,” he agrees. “Thank you.”

“You don't need to thank me, Harry. I'm happy to help.” She smiles at him and he can't help getting lost in her eyes for a moment. She's so beautiful when she smiles and it lifts his heart when she shows him that she cares. It's hard not to imagine, sometimes, how different his life would be, how _happy_ he would be were she to ever give them a chance together. He would _never_ take it for granted. Every day with her would be a blessing, a gift so precious, that he would cherish every moment.

“Oh,” she says suddenly, breaking eye-contact and turning to the bed. “There were a couple of things I didn't know if you'd like to keep.” And she reaches for a pile of clothes as he takes a few steps closer to her. “Jumpers – they look handmade, and I wasn't sure if they were special. I thought your mum might have made them for him?”

She's spread one out in front of her so he can see it. “No,” he shakes his head. “Mum didn't knit. She painted and played the piano and the organ in church, but she didn't like to sew or knit, or cook, for that matter.”

She smiles enigmatically and he wonders what she's thinking. “Is that painting one of hers then?” She nods to the wall behind the bed.

“Yes, it is,” he replies, moving round her to take a closer look. He lifts the paining off the wall, staring down at it.

“It's beautiful,” she says near his shoulder. “I love the colours she used. It has such an uplifting quality about it.”

“I think it's supposed to be the house in Reading where I grew up,” he explains, “with a slightly...” He hesitates.

“Modern?” she offers.

He smiles. “Yes. Modern style. She liked modern art. She was always visiting the Tate whenever she came up to London.” He chuckles at a memory and at her questioning look he explains, “She wanted to paint a portrait of me once, but I didn't have the patience to sit still long enough. I must have been ten or so. To get out of it, I remember telling her I didn't want to turn into a Picasso with my mouth where my eyes should be and an ear on the front of my face.”

She smiles. “And how did she take that?”

“She just laughed. She was hardly ever cross, my mother. It became an in-joke between us.” He knows he sounds a little wistful, but he misses her so much sometimes. He has a feeling his life would have taken a very different turn had she lived a little longer.

He feels her hand on his arm, rubbing soothingly against it. “At least we have some good memories of them to hold onto, Harry,” she says softly, squeezing his arm as their gazes hold, then smiling again and turning away. “I'll just finish up here, then you can tell me what you'd like me to tackle next.”

 _Me_ , he thinks as he watches her get back to work, desperately wishing that the timing was right for him to ask for more. He turns back to the picture, gazing at it for long moments, wondering how his father ever managed to charm his mother into marrying him. Then he sets it carefully aside against the wall and turns to look around the bedroom again. He should probably just go through each room systematically, looking for things he'd like to keep, or one of his children might enjoy – not that he has any idea what their tastes are, really – and safely box them up, leaving the rest to Ruth, who seems to be very efficient at packing and just as willing to help. Maybe he can convince her to let him buy her dinner after this as a thank you.

“Oh, this is lovely,” he hears her exclaim. “And such a beautiful colour. Look.” And she turns to face him, holding out a green jumper that he doesn't recognise and bringing it closer to him, holding it in front of his chest and looking up at him. “It's perfect and I bet it would fit too. It must be angora, or something – it's so soft. And it's just the right shade of green to bring out the flecks in your eyes.”

He stares at her for a moment, dumbfounded, overcome by her, overwhelmed by a sudden yearning to kiss her, love her, beg her to give them a second chance. And though he manages somehow not to act on his desire, she must see some of the longing in his gaze because she blushes and clears her throat as she turns away, setting the jumper carefully on the bed.

“Anyway,” she murmurs and turns back to the packing. “I'll be finished here soon. I've emptied the wardrobe and chest of drawers. I haven't checked the bedside tables though, if you want to do that?”

He clears his throat. “Right,” he says, his voice sounding gravelly to his ears, and pulls open the drawer of the bedside table, focussing his eyes and thoughts on it, squashing down his love and longing once more.

It's empty, as is the cupboard below it. It's a nice, little piece of furniture and he has a vague recollection of it from his childhood. He might keep the set, he decides, thinking they're much better than the ones he has at home – better made, more elegant, more tasteful. As he walks around Ruth, the boxes and the bed, he has a look at the other furniture in the room, assessing it. It's not a matching set though it has the same dark shade – he suspects it's walnut. He could keep the rest too, but the wardrobe is smaller than his own and the chest of drawers too large. He doesn't have many clothes that can be folded; most are suits and shirts that need hanging space in his cupboard. Maybe one of his children could use them.

The other bedside table is clearly the one his father used. There's a box of tissues on it, next to the bedside lamp and a pile of books – from the library most likely. He'll have to check them against the list they gave him at the reception. The cupboard reveals more books – nothing unexpected there. The drawer, however, is quite a surprise, stocked as it is with reading glasses, wipes, some little blue pills, and most surprising of all, two pairs of black, fluffy handcuffs.

He stares at these in shock, putting two and two together to reach a sudden understanding of the extent of Agatha's grief, the bile rising in his throat and acute feelings of betrayal taking him utterly by surprise.

“Harry?” Ruth asks, clearly having noticed something's the matter.

He hesitates, swallowing hard before reaching into the drawer and pulling out the handcuffs. “Put these in one of those boxes, would you?” he says gruffly and he tosses them towards her. He should probably have slipped them into his pocket to dispose of later, when no one else was looking, but he can't quite bring himself to keep them on his person, even for a few moments, which is quite absurd really considering all the terrible things that he's seen and done and suffered during his years at MI-5.

They land on the bed beside her and he sees her eyes widen in shock before they dart up to his face, concern shimmering in their depths. Thankfully, she doesn't say anything, scooping them up quickly and dropping them in the box she's filling with suits, but once it's done, he sees her look his way again and hesitate, so he turns back to the drawer, surreptitiously slipping the Viagra into his pocket to be disposed of with the other medications belonging to his father, and piling the books on the bed. He really does not want to talk about this now and he suddenly regrets his moment of weakness which resulted in him involving Ruth. He should have just taken a deep breath, told her everything's fine, and slipped the offending items into his pocket, even if he'd had to leave the room immediately after to dispose of them at once. He shakes his head at himself, hesitating over the reading glasses as he admonishes himself for his weakness, before putting them down on the bed by the books and closing the drawer.

The bedside table is now empty, so he turns back to Ruth, only to find her still watching him. “You okay?” she asks softly.

“Fine,” he replies, wishing they could just forget about the whole thing. Despite his first, gut reaction, he understands only too well. His father had been without a companion for thirty-five years! He doubts any man could survive that long without sex. He was only human after all. “Could you hand me the painting, please?”

She turns and picks it up, holding it out for him across the bed.

“Thank you,” he says, watching as she wordlessly turns back to packing his father's suits into the boxes – they're all the clothes left on the bed, apart from the green jumper. “The jumper too if you wouldn't mind.”

She looks up at him in surprise, then slowly reaches for it, tossing it across the bed at him.

“You're right,” he says, fingering the soft material. “It's very nice.”

She smiles, the warmth in her eyes soothing his heart and bringing him peace once more. He's his father's son in more ways than one, it would seem. He's not been faithful to Ruth either during her exile, but his heart has been hers, just like James Pearce's heart had always belonged to Fiona Emily Monro.


	5. Chapter 5

 

They've made good progress, with the bedroom, office, and dining room all packed up, ready but for the furniture still to be found there. She's found some sticky notes and labelled the pieces Harry wants to keep, for when the movers come to pick them up. They're in the living room now, taking a much deserved rest and looking through James Pearce's record collection when there's another knock at the door.

Harry sighs, leaning his head back to look at the ceiling in exasperation before putting the record he's holding in the box at his feet and placing his hands on his knees, preparing to rise.

“I'll get it,” she says, setting aside her tea and laying a hand on his shoulder as she stands. _Poor Harry._ It's been such an emotional evening for him and he looks exhausted. He's consumed three glasses of whisky already, and though she'd been tempted to say something about that and the fact that he'll be driving home later, she'd bitten her tongue, knowing how much he relies on it as an emotional crutch and deciding to stick to tea herself so she can drive him home if necessary.

The eyes of the young man before her, as she opens the door, leave her no doubt of his identity. He frowns at her, his expression somewhat hostile, but she doesn't let that faze her. “Hello,” she says politely. “May I help you?”

He doesn't say anything, but his companion glances at his face before replying softly, “Good evening. Please forgive the intrusion. I'm Greg Chesterfield and this is Graham Pearce.” Before he can continue any further, however, she hears the leather of the armchair creak as Harry gets up and approaches them, Greg falling silent and looking suddenly rather nervous. She doesn't need to look at Harry's face to know he's got his best scowling Section Head look in place.

“Ruth Evershed,” she says, extending her hand and shaking Greg's before turning to Graham. “I'm so sorry for your loss,” she murmurs softly. He glances at her, but doesn't shake her hand or reply, and she can't help hoping that Harry's got enough sense to not show his displeasure at this.

“Graham,” he greets neutrally as he stops by her side.

“Dad,” Graham replies, staring back at him, his gaze radiating displeasure and defiance.

Poor Greg is busy glancing from one to the other and then away, looking like he's wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

“Where's Catherine?” Graham asks.

“Her plans changed. She couldn't make it.”

Another long silence follows Harry's words.

“Right,” she says eventually to break the tension. “Shall I make some tea?” And without waiting for an answer, she walks into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

It doesn't take long for Greg to join her.

“Err.. Hi,” he says, looking a little sheepish. “I wondered if you might need some help?”

“Thank you. That's kind,” she replies, smiling at him. “I'll certainly need some help carrying the mugs through.” He looks relieved as he steps into the room and glances at the worktop before going over to the fridge.

“No milk, I'm afraid,” she says, anticipating his intent. “The fridge has been cleared out. All we have are these little milk thingies I nicked from the common room downstairs.” She indicates the tiny, long-life milk portions she'd thought to find earlier, when tea without milk had suddenly lost its appeal.

“Right.” He stops and turns to face her, stuffing his hands in his pockets and looking a little lost.

“You're a friend of Graham's then?” she asks conversationally while they wait for the kettle to boil.

“Yeah.”

“I'm a friend of Harry's.”

He nods, beginning to rock on his feet.

“Are you alright? You seem a little tense,” she says.

“Sorry,” he replies, taking his hands out of his pockets and doing his best to relax his shoulders and stand up tall. “It's... well... Graham's dad... he seems...”

“It's a stressful time,” she replies gently. “He's not always so... gruff.” Privately she thinks that there is precious little time in Harry's life that isn't stressful or when he's not grumpy and gruff, at least with most people, but she doesn't share this with Greg. She feels a need to protect Harry tonight and make sure he's not misunderstood, even if Greg is a total stranger and Graham likely knows Harry far better than she does.

“Yeah. I can imagine. Graham's cut up about his grandfather. I must be so much worse for him.” He falls silent for a moment, then asks, “Have you known him long?” She frowns at him, and he hastens to clarify, “I meant... Well... Graham's not... it's complicated and I just wanted-”

“Another perspective?” she guesses.

“Yeah.” He looks relieved.

She finds the focus of his questions on Harry odd until it occurs to her that Greg and Graham might be lovers, and then they begin to make perfect sense. Of course, Greg would be worried about what Harry thought of him if that's the case.

“Are you and Graham..?” she tails off, not sure how to finish the sentence without risking offending him, and besides, it's none of her business really. He hesitates, seemingly conflicted. “Sorry,” she says. “It's none of my business. For what it's worth though, I'm sure Harry only wants Graham to be happy, even if they don't seem to see eye-to-eye. He's a good man – loyal and kind once you get to know him, and fiercely protective of his people. If you ask me, Graham's lucky to have him.”

“You and he..?” Greg begins, but also tails off, dropping his gaze in embarrassment.

“We're just friends,” she says softly, turning to pick up the kettle and pour some water into the waiting mugs. “But he's always been there for me when I've needed one.”

When the mugs are full, Greg moves closer to add milk and sugar to his own and Graham's. “We're getting married,” he says in a low voice, his eyes focused on stirring the tea, surprising her. She hadn't expected him to confide in her like this though, certainly, it's not the first time it's happened. In fact, it's always served her quite well as a spy, the way people seem to trust her and use her as a sounding board or a confidant. “Graham doesn't want to ask him, but I think it'd be nice if he was there. My old man died when I was eight. It seems a shame for neither of our fathers to be at our wedding.” He turns to look at her, a mixture of wariness and hope in his gaze.

“I'm sure Harry would love to be there,” she says, knowing that it's the truth. She knows enough about the state of his relationship with Graham to know that he wouldn't expect to be asked, but she can well imagine the joy and emotion that would fill his heart where Graham to invite him.

“Gray's not come out to him, you know,” Greg replies. “I don't want to make him do something he doesn't want to do, but it's not like he'll be able to hide it once we're married, right?”

“That's true,” she agrees, part of her suspecting that Harry already knows. It seems unlikely that he doesn't have an inkling unless he really hasn't had any contact with his son since before he entered puberty and even then... Harry's a spy. It's his job to know people.

“Anyway, it seems I've worn him down. He told me earlier today that, if I want him there, I can ask him myself. Only...” he hesitates, dropping his gaze back down to the tea and picking up a spoon to stir it.

“You find him as intimidating as Graham warned you he would be?”

“Yes.”

She smiles. “What has Graham told you about him exactly?” she asks, wanting to ascertain if he knows Harry works for MI-5.

He shrugs. “Not a lot. His parents divorced when he was three and he didn't see much of him after that. He said he's a workaholic and doesn't have time for family. Graham believes he doesn't care, so it's a bit of a sore subject. He hardly every speaks about his dad.”

“I'm sorry he believes that,” Ruth replies quietly, “but I assure you, it's really not true. Harry _does_ care, though he sometimes finds it hard to show it. He's had to grow a thick skin to survive, but he's a good man. I know him through work, as it happens, and it took me over a year to warm to him, despite working on the same team. Once you get to know him though, it's worth it, and if you win his trust, his loyalty never wavers.”

Greg smiles. “I guess that's true of Gray too. He's amiable enough, but hard to really get to know, you know? And he's loyal to a fault once he's emotionally attached to someone.” Ruth gets the impression that Graham's loyalty isn't tempered by the sense of self-preservation, self-confidence, and self-respect that Harry has, and he's suffered in his personal life as a result, perhaps been abused by previous partners, and she can't help feeling sorry for that. Still, it seems like Greg is a nice bloke and that he loves Graham very much, and she's happy about that. Again she wonders if Harry is aware of the nature and seriousness of their relationship and if he's had Greg vetted already. As they each pick up two mugs and she leads the way out of the kitchen, she decides that he probably has.


	6. Chapter 6

He takes the tea Ruth hands him with a quiet thank you, desperately wanting another whisky instead, but knowing he's already had too many if he's going to drive home and make it there in one piece tonight, not to mention make sure Ruth gets home safely. Besides, Graham's watching him and, given the lad's struggle with addiction, it doesn't feel right to drink in front of him. He'd never admit this out loud, but he suspects Graham inherited that particular propensity from him – since his mother died, he's regularly strayed dangerously close to the boarder with alcoholism and, if he's being brutally honest, has crossed it a few times too, though his sojourns have thankfully been brief.

He takes a sip of the warm liquid before giving himself permission to look at Ruth, knowing that Graham's already suspicious about her and her relationship to him. He's already asked who she is and looked like he didn't believe a word of it when he'd told him that she's just a friend. Not that it surprises him really. He doubts Graham believes him capable of having friends, and if he's honest, he's not sure he is either. All the people in his life now are either colleagues, or assets, or family, or Ruth, and if he's honest, he likes it that way. You can't have friends when you can't tell people about the life you lead. What's he supposed to bond with people over? Cricket? Dog racing? The weather? Far better to have colleagues who'd die for you, if you ask him. And once he'd told Graham that he knows Ruth through work, he'd immediately looked less suspicious about the nature of his relationship with her, though he's sure he's become more wary of Ruth herself.

When their eyes meet, it calms him, as always, and he feels sure that he could give up whisky altogether if she would just let him love her and love him in return, and though he wants to just stare at her warm eyes all night and forget about everything else, he doesn't let his gaze linger, aware of his son's scrutiny. Graham might not be as adept as him at hiding his emotions, but he's just as quick and observant as he is – both his children are.

“So,” Ruth says after a moment, clearly trying to break the awkward silence that's settled over them, “did you have a long drive to get here?”

He takes a sip of his tea to hide his smile as Ruth glances at him, her eyes clearly saying, “I have no clue what I'm doing here! Help!”

Greg glances at Graham before replying, “No, not really. The traffic was good.”

“Right. Good.” She nods and takes a sip of her tea.

Harry rather suspects they'll all finish their tea in record time if this continues, so he reaches forward to put his mug down on the coffee table and then takes out his father's will from the inside pocket of his jacket, along with an envelope, which he opens, gently tipping its contents onto the table. These were the items his father had on his person that he'd picked up from the morgue last week when he'd gone in to identify his body – his watch, wedding ring, wallet, cheque book, pocket-comb, and an old mobile phone.

He picks up the watch, studying it for a moment before turning to his son. “Grandad wanted you to have this,” he says, waiting until Graham reaches to take it from his hand. “It's the only possession he mentions specifically in his will.”

Graham nods, then asks, “What about Catherine?”

“He left her your Gran's engagement ring.”

“Right.” Graham nods again, fingering the gold watch as he stares down at it. “And you?”

Harry frowns, pursing his lips before unfolding the will and reading out, “And to my son, Henry James Pearce, I bequeath the remainder of my possessions and estate.” He folds it up again and sets it aside, absently picking up the wedding ring lying on the table. “I'm not going to be keeping most of it. If there's anything else you want...?”

He watches surreptitiously as Graham lifts his eyes to look at Greg, and he can't help wishing that his son would finally confide in him about their relationship. Not that he deserves it, mind. He's never really been there for Graham as a father should be, though lately he _has_ tried. Unfortunately, however, it seems that Graham's viewing his efforts much like he had viewed his own father's – too little, too late.

He sees Graham's jaw clench and eyes harden as he gently shakes his head at Greg and he all but sighs in defeat. At least, Greg's a nice, young man, he consoles himself, and will take good care of his son if their relationship lasts. When he'd got the vetting report on him back, he'd almost told them to check everything again, so surprised had he been that there was nothing to flag about Gregory Alan Chesterfield. He's certainly not Graham's usual type – controlling, abusive, and involved with illicit drugs one way or another – and for that he's more grateful than he could ever possibly say.

“Well,” he says, putting the ring down on the table and getting up, “his clothes are all packed up in those boxes, as are the things from his office that I don't need. You're welcome to take them, look through them, and drop what you don't want off at a charity shop. Also, other than the bedside tables, the furniture in the bedroom's up for grabs, as is most of what's in the office. Ruth's labelled the pieces I want to keep. Feel free to label what you want, and I'll have it delivered.” He turns to look at Ruth. “Ready to tackle the kitchen?”

“Yes,” she agrees, giving him a small nod.

“I'll grab the boxes,” he says, and turns his back on all of them.


	7. Chapter 7

The kitchen is all packed up and ready to go and she now has her very own box with a few things Harry was going to give away, but insisted she take instead. Perhaps he'd seen the longing in her gaze as she'd looked at the assortment of crockery in the cupboards that are so much prettier than her own and which had reminded her of all the things she'd lost when going into exile and then again on her return. “I can't believe I didn't think to ask before, Ruth,” he'd said softly, “but is there anything you'd like to take home? Maybe some pots and pans, or some sheets and towels, extra pillows or blankets, or cushions, or something? Or even some furniture if you need it. I imagine you've not had much time to get yourself anything more than the essentials since your return.” She'd objected, of course, telling him she's fine and doesn't need anything initially, but he'd been so insistent and so sweet about it that she'd given in – after she'd made sure Harry asked Graham to take what he wants first – and now she has almost too many, lovely, new things – she finds she rather likes the late Mr Pearce's taste, or perhaps it's Harry's mother's.

With the kitchen and airing cupboard finished, only the living room remains and it is here that they've all gathered once more.

“What about Catherine?” Graham asks. “Won't she want some of Grandad's things?”

“I don't know, Graham,” Harry replies, “but I don't have the time to do this again. Work's always busy, there's his funeral to plan and, as executor of his will, there's still a lot to sort out, selling this place and the shares your grandfather had, sorting out the trust he left for you and your sister, paying any taxes due, and goodness knows what else. Whatever you don't want to take, we'll leave here and she can pass by and have a look when she has the time. I'll schedule the movers for a couple of weeks out, so that should give her plenty of opportunity. Besides, if I know your sister, her tastes are very particular and she hates clutter these days. I can't imagine there's much she'll want from this lot.” He moves his arm in an all encompassing motion.

“I guess,” Graham replies, and Ruth can't help noticing the surprise on his face that Harry should know Catherine so well.

“I'm a little surprised that you don't want more than what you're taking,” Harry continues softly. “You were closer to him than anyone.”

She watches the emotions flit across Graham's face, thinking how like Harry he is in many ways, yet unable to hide what he's feeling.

Graham clears his throat. “Well, maybe the chess set? We used to play that together, and the record player?”

Harry nods. “Alright. There are some records I'd like to keep, if you don't mind? I have my own player, but some of the music is... full of memories.”

“Yeah, okay,” Graham agrees, looking a little stunned. She's not sure if that's because Harry's asking for his permission, or because he's being sentimental. It's side of him she's seen before only once, after MI-5 had crossed paths with his daughter, and it makes her wonder briefly whether he'd been the same after her own departure. She'd asked him to adopt her cats, but until this moment, she'd assumed that he'd just delegated that particular task to someone else. What if her cats are alive and well at his place still and he hasn't known how to tell her? What if he'd taken something more as well, perhaps a photograph to remember her by, or the book of Ovid he'd given her? She'd cherished that book and the sentiment behind it – that he should know her so well and spend the time and money to get her something she'd love like that. She'd been heartbroken that she hadn't thought to take it with her. She'd not had anything to remember him by.

Greg, she notes, is looking a little misty-eyes as he watches them pull the box of records close and begin to sort through them, and she wonders if he's missing his own father in this moment.

“Shall I look for those two missing library books on the bookshelf then, Harry?” she asks, hating to sit idly by while they work, her emotions making her feel restless.

“Thank you, Ruth. That would be grand.” He smiles at her in that gentle, special way he reserves just for her, and she can't help the way her heart skips a beat and expands to see him looking momentarily happy, so pleased in fact, that he's forgotten temporarily to hide his feelings for her from his son. She sees Graham's gaze flit between them and the speculative look he gives her, but she hopes her own feelings for Harry are not so easily read – after all, they're hardly straightforward and sometimes she herself has trouble deciphering them.

“I'll help,” Greg offers and together they get up and walk over to the bookshelves lining the far wall, perusing the late Mr Pearce's collection with barely disguised glee, and that is how she discovers that Greg shares her passion for books and that, in fact, he studied the classics too at university. They find the missing library books and a few treasures each, debating the virtues of one author over another, for though they both love these works, their tastes differ and each of them has a passion for different writers.

They don't realise that Graham and Harry have finished their task and are watching them both with almost identical fond looks on their faces until Harry gets up, approaches them, and without a word takes the books they're holding from their hands.

“Sorry,” Greg hastens to says, looking a little alarmed and embarrassed, but she just lifts her eyebrows at Harry, silently demanding an explanation.

“Hmmm,” he hums. “Virgil's _Aeneid_ versus Homer's _Odyssey._ A tough call.” Then smiling at each of them, he hands the books back. “Keep them. Mum would have been pleased to see them go to loving homes.”

Greg seems to have lost his voice, opening and closing his mouth like a fish a couple of times before he can stammer his thanks.

“They were your mother's?” she asks, looking up at him in surprise.

“Yes,” he replies. “She loved the classics. She loved most literature, in fact, especially poetry.”

“And music and art,” she murmurs, looking down at the book in her hands and opening it to find Fiona E. Munro written in the top, right-hand corner of the book, in an elegant hand with a fountain pen. “She must have been quite a remarkable woman.”

He doesn't reply, but when she looks up at him again, it seems to her that his eyes are telling her that he thinks she's just as remarkable as his mother had ever been. She blushes and looks down, murmuring a quiet thank you and wishing suddenly that Cotterdam had never happened, that she'd never had to leave, so this moment might have been so much simpler for both of them.

She loves him still – she's always known that – but tonight she's beginning to realise that she wants him too. She wants to finish what they'd started when she'd said yes to a date between them, and though her emotions are conflicted and there is guilt and pain mingled with the love and the longing, she wants to forge ahead now, work through it, unpick it all, and find a path to a future where she and Harry are together. It'll take time, she knows. She's not ready to jump into bed with him, move in tomorrow, but neither does she want to ignore the pull he's always had on her, pretend like there's nothing between them but a healthy level of respect between colleagues or a gentle warmth between friends. There's love and there's desire and there's a connection that's deeper and stronger than either of those, almost like their souls are linked together, tied by an invisible, indestructible, elastic chain that can't be broken no matter how far it is stretched through space and time, or how hard they each try to sever the connection.

“I think we'd best load up the car then,” Graham's voice interrupts her thoughts, forcing her back to the present.

“Yeah,” Greg replies, crossing the room to tuck his new book safely beside the records and chess set Graham's packed into the box on the coffee table.

“I'll help,” Harry offers.

“I think we can manage,” Graham replies a little abruptly, and for a moment, she sees Harry struggle to maintain the mask that hides the pain his son's words inflict on him.

“Alright,” he murmurs, turning back to the bookshelves and quickly scanning the titles there. She sees Greg give Graham a reproachful look and watches as Graham's eyes linger on his father and he hesitates before shaking his head at himself and moving over to the corner, lifting one of the boxes she'd packed earlier with James's clothes and carrying it out the front door, Greg close on his heels with another.

When they're free of their presence for a few moments, she turns to look at Harry who's still busy scanning the book titles, and pulling a few from the shelves, clearly the ones he wants to keep.

“Wordsworth?” she asks in surprise.

“One of my mother's favourites,” he replies.

“ _I wandered lonely as a cloud_  
_That floats on high o'er vales and hills,_  
_When all at once I saw a crowd,_  
_A host, of golden daffodils,_ ” she murmurs softly. 

“ _Beside the lake, beneath the trees,_  
_Fluttering and dancing in the breeze,_ ” he finishes, surprising her again as he turns to face her and smiles. 

“ _Continuous as the stars that shine_  
_And twinkle on the milky way,_ ” she continues only to be joined by him as they recite the rest of the verse together, eyes locked and sparkling, yet another connection made, yet another moment, another memory to keep and treasure.

“ _They stretched in never-ending line_  
_Along the margin of a bay:_  
_Ten thousand saw I at a glance,_  
_Tossing their heads in sprightly dance._ ”

“I love the imagery in that poem,” she says, blinking and looking down as the moment becomes too much for her.

He doesn't get a chance to reply before Greg and Graham return to grab another box each and the moment between them is lost.

She turns aside, slipping her new book into her box, then turning to look around the room at anything but him, seeking a distraction. She's never been adept at the relationship side of things, but with Harry it's always been so much harder than with anyone else, perhaps because of the strength of her feelings, or the unequal balance of power between them at work, the intensity of him and the fear that getting too close would be akin to orbiting too close to the sun, that his charisma, his passion, and his love will consume her whole, render her helpless, powerless, and a shadow of her former self. Logically, she knows this couldn't happen and that it's the last thing Harry wants to do, that he loves her and would love nothing more than to be the rock that supports her, shores her up, and lifts her to new heights of achievement and power and love and pleasure. And if she's honest, she wants that too, and she wants to be there for _him_ , be the force of love that helps him always do the right thing, that pushes aside his daemons and the horrors of his job, that encourages him to _feel_ again after spending all day being the leader they all need him to be, that allows him to sleep well at night in spite of everything he's seen and done in service to his country.

“What about the lampshades?” she asks, her eyes alighting on the crystals dangling from the ceiling, their uniqueness and beauty providing the distraction she'd been looking for.

Harry stops beside her to look up, arms still full of books as he makes his way over to one of the boxes. “You're right. I almost forgot about those. I should get them down.”

“They're beautiful,” she murmurs.

“Real crystal,” he replies, “from Prague, if I'm not mistaken. There's one in the bedroom too and the dining room. Mum had a real eye for beauty.”

“I wish I could have known her,” she says without thinking.

His gaze is intense when he turns to look at her, but thankfully, Greg and Graham return at that moment and, scared they'll disappear again before the tension in the air dissipates, she takes it upon herself to ask them if they could get the lampshades down.


	8. Chapter 8

He's sure that his mother would have loved Ruth, although she'd have been cross with her too for breaking his heart with her rejection. He rather thinks she might even have gone as far as to do something about it too, and he can't help smiling at the thought of her ringing up Ruth to tell her what a wonderful man her son is and how she should give him another chance. Not that he _is_ wonderful in fact. Far from it. Look how much pain he's caused all the people he's loved – his children, his wife, his father, and Ruth. Perhaps it's just as well his mum didn't live long enough to find out what a ruthless bastard he can be.

He shakes his head, dispelling these thoughts as he reaches his car, allowing Greg to take the box he's carrying from his arms and place it in the boot of his Range Rover.

“Thanks,” he says.

“You're welcome...” Greg hesitates and Harry can tell he's struggling with what to call him.

“Harry,” he suggests.

He watches Greg swallow and nod before taking a deep breath and murmuring, “Harry.”

He smiles, lifting his hand to pat his shoulder. “Good man,” he says, then drops his hand to his side again and eyes the boot critically. “Not much room left.”

“No,” Greg agrees and turns to follow him back to the flat.

After Greg and Graham had got the lampshades down and they'd been packed into a new box, Greg had offered to help load his car too and Ruth had accepted for him before he could refuse. So Greg has alternated between helping him and helping Graham, something he's not at all sure how his son feels about. He gets the feeling that Greg's got an ulterior motive, other than the obvious one of trying to endear himself to his partner's father, but he hasn't been able to figure out what it is yet, though he's sure it'll become apparent soon enough.

They slip back into the warmth of the building, a shiver running down his spine at the change in temperature that he successfully hides. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Greg glance at him, so he does his best to emit an aurora of reassurance to encourage the lad, so he can finally find out what it's all about. He has several theories already, of course, and is eager to know which one is correct. Greg doesn't say anything, however, and he has to push down his frustration lest he pick up on it and clam up for good.

Once they're back in the flat, Ruth greets them at the door with, “How's it going? Any space left?”

“Maybe for one more box,” he replies, his heart expanding at the sight of her. He could continue carrying boxes out to the car all night just for the pleasure of seeing her again every time he steps foot inside and the thrill this gives him. Part of it's the sight of her smile and the warmth in her eyes, but part of it too is the feeling, the fantasy that he's coming home to a place that they share, where she's ready to greet him with a kind word and warm smile, and if he closes his eyes and imagines it, with a hug and a soft kiss too.

“Two if they're smaller ones,” Greg adds, and Harry notes that he also seems more relaxed now that Ruth's near. Not that that surprises him – she's wonderful.

“Well, there aren't that many left,” she says. “What about this one and this one?” She points to two smaller boxes full of the books he'd packed earlier.

“Perfect,” he replies and moves towards them. Before he can get there, however, Greg speaks.

“Err... Harry?” he says tentatively, causing him to turn to face him, adrenaline surging through his body as he realises that this is it – he's finally going to find out what Greg wants from him.

“Yes?” He makes sure he sounds encouraging.

“Graham,” Greg begins then pauses and swallows, dropping his gaze before lifting it to his once more. “Graham and I... We...” He hesitates, struggling to find the courage and the words to speak, his eyes seeking out Ruth's for a moment before returning to his, and Harry takes pity on him.

“You're together,” he murmurs softly, watching Greg's eyes widen with surprise.

“Yes. How...?” he stammers. “Gray said...”

Harry smiles sadly. “He's never told me, but parents have a way of figuring these things out, Greg. I know my son, even if he does not wish to know me.” He senses Ruth move beside him, can feel the compassion radiating from her, and though she doesn't touch him, it soothes and calms him to know she's here and she cares.

“Right. Yes,” Greg stammers before taking another deep breath and lifting his eyes to his. “I love him, Sir.”

“Harry,” he interrupts gently.

“Harry.” Greg corrects himself. “I love Graham with all my heart and he loves me. We're getting married in six weeks, and we would like it if you could be there to celebrate with us.”

For a moment, he's speechless, overcome by emotion and he has to blink to clear his vision, so moved is he by Greg's words and so saddened by the fact that they're coming from him and not from his son. He swallows and smiles at the young man before him, seeing the hope and apprehension in his eyes. “I'm happy for you, Greg, and for Graham,” he murmurs, his voice a little gruff. “I know you'll take good care of him and I wish you both... much happiness and love for many years to come.” He extends his hand, grasping and shaking Greg's warmly when the young man eagerly reaches for it, his eyes alight with pleasure. “I rather think, however, that my presence will not be welcome or appreciated by my son, seeing as you are the one extending the invitation, and as much as I would like to be part of such an important day in his life, I have no wish to ruin it for him.”

“No,” Greg replies earnestly, “it's not that he doesn't want you there. I'm _sure_ he does. He was just scared to ask in case you said no. He thinks...” but here he tails off and Harry's left to guess the end of that sentence.

He smiles sadly, releasing Greg's hand and squaring his shoulders, doing his utmost to hide the pain piercing his heart. “I know what he thinks. I used to think the same of my own father and, like Graham, I found it impossible to forgive him for a very long time – almost until it was too late, in fact. I still live in hope that Graham will prove wiser than me, but until then, all that is left for me is to respect his feelings and wishes.”

Greg looks a little crestfallen after that, and beside him, a sob escapes Ruth's lungs. He turns to her with concern only to find her walking away, retreating to the bathroom with an apology thrown over her shoulder.

“Is she alright?” Greg asks, his voice coloured by worry.

He frowns, his heart sinking to see her in pain and to know that he's the cause of it. For a moment, he wonders what's upset her so, until he realises it must be the boy and his father. Something he said must have made her think of them again. “Ruth lost contact recently with her step-son,” he murmurs softly, “after the death of her partner.” The words escape him almost before he realises what he's saying, and though he knows there's nothing to fear from Greg knowing the truth, he's appalled by his lack of discretion. He's all over the shop this evening and in desperate need of another drink. He should have come alone tonight, no matter how difficult or how little he would have accomplished – he rather suspects he'd have spent all night in the armchair finishing his father's whisky if left to his own devices.

“Blimey,” Greg breathes, his voice full of compassion, “I'm so sorry. She seems so lovely. What an awful thing to happen to her. How old was he?”

He assumes Greg's asking about the boy and not the doctor, and he suddenly realises with a jolt that he doesn't know the answer. How can he say he cares for Ruth if he doesn't even remember the boy's age? Nico, he tells himself angrily. He needs to start using their names if he hopes to ever reach Ruth and carve a future for them together, no matter how painful such thoughts might be to him.

“Ten,” he guesses, knowing he's right, give or take a few years.

“Jesus,” Greg mutters. “Poor kid.”

Harry nods slowly, thinking of the dark-haired boy and the pain he must be going through to have lost both his parents. His mind wanders to Wes Carter, and from there to his own children, and he finds himself contemplating briefly if it's worse to lose ones parents entirely, or to have them still but hardly ever see them. At least Wes knows they loved him. What kind of message did his own actions give his children?

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the envelope that still contains his father's wedding ring – the rest of his things have been packed in one of the boxes – and with it, his mother's wedding and engagement rings that he'd found and placed with his. He opens it and tips out the rings, returning the engagement ring to the envelope and his pocket, but before he can do any more, Graham walks in from outside.

“Graham,” Harry says, taking a step towards him, the rings safely clasped in his left hand. “Congratulations,” he murmurs, extending his right hand and silently pleading with him to take it. “Greg tells me you are to be married. I'm pleased for you, Son,” he adds, his hand still open, waiting for Graham to take it, “and I wish you every happiness together.”

It feels like almost an eternity later that Graham accepts the sincerity of his words and takes the hand he offers. “Thanks, Dad,” he murmurs.

Harry smiles, gripping his hand firmly. “I don't know if you've got rings yet, but you're welcome to take your grandfather's.” He lifts and opens his left hand, the rings nestled in his palm. “I have your Gran's too though I imagine it'll be too small. Perhaps you can have it resized or you can melt them both down and make new ones. They were happy, your grandparents, and they loved each other deeply. May they bring you both good luck and much love and joy in your future life together.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Graham says again, releasing his hand to pick up the rings before his eyes find Greg's and he smiles, a true smile this time, full of joy. “You'll come, won't you?” he blurts out, turning to look at him again.

“I will if you want me there, Graham.”

“Yeah. I do.”

He smiles, his heart expanding. “Then it's a promise. I'll be there.”

He sees Graham's eyes cloud over and he knows his son is remembering all the other times when he'd failed to turn up after promising to be there, all the instances when he'd put his duty first before his love for his children.

“He _will_ be there, Graham,” a quiet voice by his shoulder assures his son, and he turns to find Ruth there, her eyes on Graham's, a look of determination and conviction in their clear, blue depths. “I'll make sure of it. We're perfectly capable of managing without him for a few hours, no matter what he thinks.” She looks at him as she says it, her eyes daring him to contradict her, and he can't help smiling. She knows him so well.

She returns her gaze to his son who murmurs his thanks, a smile gracing his lips.

“You're welcome,” she says. “And congratulations to both of you.”

“Thank you,” Greg and Graham reply, almost simultaneously, then turn to smile at each other.

He's happy for them, pleased that his son has finally found someone who values and loves him for who he is, rather than what he can give him, but he's also still worried about Ruth after her earlier tears, so he takes the opportunity to look at her again, an unspoken question in his gaze as their eyes meet. He wishes so desperately that he could take away her pain and suffering, could endure it himself instead of her.

She smiles at him reassuringly, clearly trying to convey to him that she's fine, though he knows better. She's not fine, but then neither is he. He hasn't been fine since that wonderful evening they'd spent together, so long ago now.

“We'd best get going,” Graham says, causing both of them to turn to look at him. “I've got an early start tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Harry agrees, feeling pleased with the progress they've made today and eager to have some time alone with Ruth. “I have an early start myself. We won't be far behind you.”

They say their goodbyes and he's pleased to see that Graham shakes Ruth's hand this time and even offers her a warm smile. Greg excuses himself to nip to the loo and Ruth takes herself off to the kitchen, clearly attempting to give him a moment alone with his son. Graham seems to realise this too, smiling wryly as he observes, “Ruth seems nice, Dad.”

“She is,” he replies, allowing his eyes to linger on the doorway to the kitchen. Then realising Greg's probably going to share with Graham what he said earlier anyway, he adds, “She's been back with us just a few months. She'd moved abroad for a few years, but her partner died suddenly and she's not been allowed contact with her step-son since. It's been a difficult time for her.”

“I'm sorry. I had no idea,” Graham murmurs, his face creasing with genuine concern for her. At least, he assumes it's for her. He doesn't think his son has forgiven him enough yet to feel compassion for _him_ and the fact that he's in love with a woman who's grieving for another man.

“Sadly, loss is all too common in our line of work,” he finds himself confessing, his mood suddenly turning maudlin. He's always tried to protect his children from the reality of his job, but it occurs to him suddenly that they are no longer children and that, if he wants a closer relationship with his son, perhaps he needs to be more open. After all, Catherine had only warmed to him after getting a taste of what he deals with everyday when she'd crossed paths with David Swift and the November Committee. “I have lost more colleagues than I'd care to admit, some of them close friends, some because of decisions _I_ have made. I did my best to protect you and Catherine from it all, but I know that I often failed. When a colleague's life or the lives of innocents hang in the balance, it's not easy to step back and delegate the task of protecting them to someone else, even when your own family needs you. I'm sorry, Graham, for my failings as a father, for not always putting you first and being the man you needed me to be.” He turns to look at his son, for once unable to hide behind his mask as their eyes meet, his vision a little fuzzy from the moisture gathering in his eyes.

“I don't know what to say,” Graham replies and he looks like he's struggling with his own emotions.

He clears his throat and turns away, wiping his eyes quickly with thumb and fingers before he turns back to face him again. “You don't need to say anything, Son. I just wanted you to know that I _am_ trying to do better and that I love you and I'm proud of you. You have turned your life around and that takes real strength, and courage, and determination. You should be proud of yourself.”

“Thanks, Dad,” he murmurs, dropping his gaze in much the same way that Ruth does when he compliments her. He hesitates, then adds, “And thanks for your support.” Then he lifts his gaze again and gives him a lopsided smile. “I hate it when Greg's right.”

He chuckles and pats him on the shoulder. “In my experience, Son. They're always right. It sounds like Greg is good for you. I'm glad.”

“Yeah. Me too.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello, everyone. Happy New Year. Thank you for reading and for your marvellous reviews. They really make my day. Cheers, S.C.

“Let me buy you dinner, Ruth,” he says softly once they're seated in the car, ready to set off. “As a thank you for all your help tonight.”

The truth is that she'd love to have dinner with him again, but not tonight. She's too drained to really enjoy it, and she suspects Harry is too. “Can I take a rain check, Harry?” she replies, turning to look at him. “As much as I would like that, I'm a little tired tonight.”

“Of course,” he agrees. “Sorry.”

“Don't be sorry, Harry.” She reaches for his hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “It was a lovely thought.”

He purses his lips in that wonderful way he has when he's feeling pleased but not sure if he's allowed to show it and clears his throat. “Right. Good. We'd best set off then.”

She withdraws her hand and snuggles into her coat, contentedly, watching the Christmas lights through the window as Harry pulls out of the parking spot and drives off. She doubts she'll ever see this place again, unless perhaps she and Harry marry one day and move in here some time in the future when they're both old and in need of care. She smiles at the thought of them having survived everything to live a happy life together and finds herself crossing her fingers and hoping for some peace and joy for them together soon.

“Everything alright?” Harry asks after a moment, perhaps concerned by her silence.

“Everything's fine.” She turns to smile at him, letting her eyes dart all over his beloved face, taking him in, wondering what he'll look like when he's in his eighties and deciding it doesn't matter because she'll love him anyway.

“What?” he frowns, pursing his lips again.

“Nothing,” she shakes her head.

“Hmmm,” he hums, clearly unconvinced.

“It's just... I know this probably sounds... wrong after... but...” She pauses, looking for the right words.

“But what?” he prompts, ever impatient.

“I enjoyed this evening. I enjoyed getting to know you a little better, meeting your son. Thanks you for letting me tag along.”

He purses his lips again, clearly unsure of what to say to that, or perhaps knowing exactly what he wants to say but scared of how she'll take it. It seems to her that they've wasted so much time hiding their thoughts and feelings, fearing rejection. She remembers how surprised she'd been by George's directness, his openness and honesty about his intentions towards her, and how refreshing she'd found it. Not that she'd want that from Harry. She's rather fond of him just the way he is and has become rather adept at reading him now anyway. She knows he still loves her. He tells her so in a thousand different ways each day. She suspects though that he's not as confident of her regard as she is of his. _She's_ the one who hides her love from him too effectively and she's sure he's not certain of its depth and nature. She supposes it's less easy to mistake his affection because he's so closed off with everyone else. She can see how her own warmth towards others – friends, colleagues – might muddy the waters for him, how he'd be hard pressed to tell if she loves him as a friend or more. And given all that's happened with her return, with George, she knows that she's going to have to be the one to make it clear first that she _does_ want more – so, so much more than what they have right now.

 _Not_ _tonight_ _though_ , she thinks. Tonight she's knackered. But tomorrow... A small smile spreads across her lips as she leans against the headrest and closes her eyes, the warmth of the car and its gentle motion relaxing her, the knowledge that she's with Harry soothing and comforting her. She might have lost everyone else, but she still has Harry, and that makes her feel safe and loved and protected. She doesn't dare contemplate what a life without him would be like. She's sure it would break her, losing Harry on top of everything else.

She wakes to the feel of his knuckles softly stroking her cheek and his voice gently calling her name. She sighs with pleasure, turning her head and body towards him only to discover that she's not actually lying down in bed as she thought she was. She opens her eyes and blinks at him, his gaze warm, a fond smile on his lips. “We're here,” he says.

She sighs again and turns in the seat, stretching her arms out in front of her, then stifling a yawn. “And I was having such a nice dream,” she complains.

His smile broadens. “You did look peaceful, but the car's going to get cold quickly with the engine off, so I thought I'd best wake you. Sorry to spoil your dream.”

She sighs, rubbing her face with her hands, then pulling her coat tighter around her. “We were at the beach. My favourite beach. In Cyprus. It was so warm and peaceful. So far away from everything,” she confesses wistfully, hoping to recapture the feeling.

“Sounds idyllic,” he murmurs softly, but when she turns to look at him, some of the warmth has left his gaze and he looks more guarded.

“It was. We were dancing.” She frowns, trying to remember. “Strangely you were wearing a suit.”

“Me?!” He looks so surprised, it's almost funny.

“Yes. You. Who did you think I meant when I said, _we_ were at the beach?” She knows the answer, of course, but she wants to see if he'll admit it.

“Well, you said Cyprus, so I assumed...” he tails off, looking a little embarrassed, then frowning as the rest of her words sink in. “Why would I wear a suit to the beach?”

“I don't know. You tell me.”

“It's your dream, Ruth, your subconscious at work.”

He grins at her, knowing he's caught her out, and it's _that_ , more than anything, that flusters her and causes her to blurt out, “Well, I've never seen you in anything but a suit. Maybe that's why.” The moment the words are out of her mouth, she knows she's thrown the conversation wide open, and she can't help the twinge of panic that makes her breath catch and her heart beat wildly in her chest. He could take this anywhere he chooses now, and for a moment, he _does_ look like he wants to suggest that they should remedy that, that he'd be happy to have her strip him down to his birthday suit any time she chooses.

In the end though, caution seems to win out and he says, “Tell me, at least, that I'd removed my tie. Hopefully my shoes and socks too?”

“No tie,” she confirms, smiling in relief though part of her's feeling a little disappointed. “No jacket either. You'd rolled your sleeves up.” She frowns, trying to remember. “I don't know if you were wearing shoes. You seemed about the same height as usual, which can't be right because I was barefoot.” She frowns trying to puzzle it out, vaguely registering the fond look in his eyes and the soft smile on his lips.

“And what, pray, were you wearing, Ruth?”

“My favourite summer dress,” she replies, blushing at the way he's looking at her now and hastily adding, “The sun had just set – my favourite time of day, just when the colours begin to fade and the stars come out. The sand was soft, still warm from the sun. It wasn't far from the house. I used to go down before breakfast for a swim, and in the evening, at sunset. It was practically empty then and so peaceful. It was so beautiful, Harry. I wish you could have seen it.”

“I can imagine,” he murmurs softly, watching her with barely disguised longing, and she doesn't know if he's picturing the beach or _her_ , swimming in the moonlight. She shivers at the thought, her body awakening under her gaze, longing to sink into him, kiss those soft, pouty lips, see if they're as gentle, as wonderful as she remembers.

Instead of drawing closer, however, he frowns and pulls back, stating, “You're cold. Best get inside. Come on.” And with that, he pulls open the door and gets out.

She sighs in disappointment before following his example and leading the way to the block of flats, unlocking and holding the door for him as he steps through with her box in his arms. Normally, she takes the stairs as she's only on the second floor, but with the box, she leads the way to the lift, which is thankfully waiting for them, so they make it to her flat quickly.

“Here we are,” she says a little self-consciously as they step through the doorway and she flicks on the lights. “It's not much, but...” she tails off, realising that calling it home would be a lie. It doesn't feel like home yet, and some days, she doubts it ever will do. “You can put the box down there.” She indicates a spot in the corner of the sparsely decorated living room. It's just a one bedroom flat and it doesn't have much of a hallway really, just a little alcove that leads straight into the sitting room. The kitchen is off to the left and the bedroom and bathroom straight ahead.

“Thanks,” she says as he straightens. He smiles and looks around him quickly before turning back to her. She tries not to think about what he reads into the state of her place and instead adds, “I'd offer you a cup of tea, but I'm not sure how wise it is to leave your car out there long. I suspect the boxes might prove too great a temptation for some people around here.”

She watches him hesitate, and for a moment, she thinks he might dismiss his car and its contents for the promise of a little more time with her, but caution wins out again, it seems, and instead he nods his agreement. “You might be right. I'd best let you rest anyway. It's been a long day.” Then he surprises her by reaching for her hand and squeezing it gently. “Thank you, Ruth. I would never have accomplished so much today without you and...” He pauses, then sighs, admitting softly, “To be honest, I'm not sure I'd have accomplished anything at all.”

She smiles fondly at him, her heart warming at his gentle admission. “It was my pleasure, Harry,” she replies, squeezing his hand, then releasing it to impulsively reach up and kiss his cheek. She wants to tell him that she thinks he's lovely, but it doesn't feel like the right moment for such an admission, so she says instead, “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes. Tomorrow,” he agrees, looking surprised yet pleased. He looks like he wants to say something more, perhaps change his mind and invite himself in for tea, but then he abruptly turns away again, reaching for the door handle. “Is Friday night good?” he asks, pausing with his back towards her, his hand still on the handle of her front door. “For dinner?”

“Sounds lovely,” she replies and watches as he turns his head to look at her, his eyes smiling softly.

“That's good,” he says.

She opens her mouth to tease him, ask him if he's already booked a table by any chance, but she catches herself in time. _Slowly does it_ , she tells herself. There's no need to raise their expectations, or remind him of what happened after the last time they had dinner together, when she'd found out people at work were talking about it. Things are different now and not just because of George and Nico. She's older and wiser, more cautious and fragile in many ways, though in others she is stronger. She's confident of Harry's love, knows her value to him personally and professionally, and is no longer scared of the gossip. She knows now how valuable and rare what they have is. She knows that she needs Harry now as much as he does her, and she's determined to make it work this time by not rushing, but taking things one step at a time.

Dinner on Friday is a good first step.


	10. Chapter 10

He keeps telling himself that this is not a date, that he has no _reason_ to be nervous, that she's not expecting anything from him except a pleasant evening between friends, but his heart doesn't want to listen. He's got a lot riding on the success of this dinner, more so than ever before, including the last time they did this. He knows how much he needs her now, how hard life is without Ruth in it, how truly alone he feels without her presence, without her kindness, her guidance, her affection, and – dare he hope? – her love.

His meeting with the DG had run late, which is making him more anxious still for, though he'd taken the opportunity to send her a text letting her know he'll be a little late when the DG's PA had interrupted to deliver an urgent message, he can't help worrying that she'll have left already. Somehow he's convinced himself that George never kept her waiting though he knows that, as a doctor, he must have been on call _sometimes_ and, therefore, called away from her side at least once during their time together. He lived with her after all – the lucky bastard.

He rubs his forehead absently, wondering how he can possibly compete with someone like him, doubting himself and what he has to offer her. A good man, she'd called him. A moral man. Honest. Tall, dark, and handsome. A doctor. Someone who saves lives and lives in the light, not someone who takes them and moves through the shadows like him.

 _Stop this_ , he tells himself sternly.

He has a lot in common with Ruth. She _likes_ him, she's _fond_ of him, and she's a spy too. She _likes_ the shadows. She'd hidden her real identity from George, hadn't she? Hidden her past, her real name, all or part of who she really is – her loves, her passions, her fears, her pain. She's as secretive as he is and she inhabits the same murky world as he. He sees her as a spark of light in the otherwise dark, dark world that surrounds him, but she _chooses_ to dwell in that world with him day in and day out. She's good, and she's kind, and she's beautiful, but she's strong and brave and determined too. She's not afraid to get her hands dirty, to stand on the wall beside him, face humanity's worst nightmares, and sacrifice herself for the grater good. She's the perfect mate for him really, and he'll be damned if he'll not give it his all to make her see that he can be perfect for her too. Tonight is just the beginning and he's in it for the long-haul.

_Never, never, never give up. It's never over._

As he exits the car in front of a pub two blocks from his final destination and dismisses his driver for the night, he's feeling much better – confident and sure of himself once more. He slips into the pub and makes his way through the Friday night throngs to the back, where he slips out again into a back alley that comes out on the next street. From here, he walks another two blocks, and confident he's not being followed, he doubles back to the restaurant where he's meeting Ruth.

He spots her at the bar, a glass of white wine in her hand, her legs crossed to expose knee-length, black, leather boots under her dark blue dress, something he's sure she wasn't wearing earlier on the Grid. He's sure she wasn't wearing that dress either, and for a moment, his body floods with want as his eyes slowly, appreciatively travel up the length of her and he has to swallow hard to get it back under control again before he can join her, murmuring his intention to the hostess before closing the distance between them.

She spots him half way to his destination and smiles, setting down her glass and swivelling to face him, uncrossing her legs and smoothing down her dress self-consciously, perhaps as nervous as he.

“Hi,” she says, when he stops before her.

“Hello,” he replies. “Sorry I'm so late.”

“It's alright,” she reassures him. “I know what it's like. I think they might have given away our table though.”

He frowns, glancing at his watch to see that he's almost an hour late. He sighs. “I'll sort it out.” She moves to rise, but he stops her with a hand on hers. “Finish your drink. I'll be right back.”

She smiles. “Okay,” she says, and as he walks away again, he's sure her eyes are following his progress, perhaps checking him out as he had her a moment ago. The thought sends a shiver up his spine and makes him square his shoulders, his stride more confident and sure.

He talks to the hostess and then the manager, and in the end, he secures a table though he's not at all convinced that it'll meet with Ruth's approval, and it's with renewed apprehension that he makes his way back to her side.

“Any luck?” she asks, smiling at him.

“They have a couple of private rooms with tables in a more... intimate setting,” he replies, watching her reaction closely. “They're willing to let us have one, but it's up to you, Ruth. If you'd rather, we can look for somewhere else to-”

“No, no. It's fine,” she says quickly.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She smiles at him, then gives him a mischievous look. “I'm not sure I can wait until we find another place. I'm famished.”

He chuckles, the tension leaving him and allowing him to breathe freely again. “Then shall we?” he asks. He offers her his hand to help her down from the high bar stool, the frisson that runs through him at her touch and smile making his heart race despite his mind cautioning him against getting his hopes up. It is clear to him that Ruth is not averse to his company and that she is more at ease around him than ever before, but it is not, as yet, clear why. Is it because she still loves him and her grief over George is subsiding enough to leave room for those feelings to surface again, or is it because she no longer does, never will again, and there is only hope of friendship between them? He very much hopes that it's the former, but he's determined to be satisfied with the latter too. After everything he's done, Ruth's friendship is more than he deserves, he's sure, and of infinite value to him. He would rather have that than nothing at all, and besides, a solid friendship is the best foundation for something more, however long he has to wait for it.

_Never give up._

He picks up her coat from the chair beside her and follows her as she crosses to the hostess who leads them through to the back of the restaurant and into a smallish room with dim lighting and bright candles on a small table set for two. He's been in here before with other women, but never has he felt as nervous and hopeful as he does right now.

He watches Ruth look around, eyes sparkling in the half-light, her expression convincing him that this experience is new to her. He turns aside to hang up her coat and remove his own, hanging it beside hers, not wanting her to see the triumphant look in his eyes or the smirk of satisfaction that he's finding hard to hide at the knowledge that George clearly never treated her to a romantic dinner like this. It doesn't matter that this isn't supposed to be romantic, and that he cannot treat it as such, nor Ruth as a prospective lover. It is enough to know, in this moment, that it's one – nil to him.

When he turns to face her once more, she's taking the seat the waiter is holding out for her, and though he momentarily wishes he'd been the one to do that, he silently acknowledges that it would have been a mistake. He needs to keep things light. There will be more opportunities to have dinner with Ruth he hopes, and with any luck, some will be proper romantic ones too.

He takes his seat and the menu the waiter hands him. “And here is the wine list,” he says, holding out the card expectantly, but before he can reach for it, Ruth has taken it from his hand.

“I'll choose the wine while you choose what you're going to eat,” she says. “I already know what I'm having.”

He nods, opening the menu to have a look, feeling a pang of guilt for keeping her waiting. It's been a while since last he was here, and though he thinks he knows what he wants, he'd like to double check that there's nothing else that appeals more.

“Can we have a bottle of this one, please?” he hears her say, and glancing up, he can see her pointing at the wine list. He frowns. She's fluent in so many languages that it surprises him she's not simply reading out the name of the wine.

“You mean the-” the waiter begins, but she interrupts him.

“Yes,” she says quickly, catching the waiter's eye.

“Of course.”

“And I'd like the Salmon please.”

“And I'll have the Pheasant,” he says decisively, suddenly wanting the young man gone.

“Both excellent choices,” he replies, then seeing the look Harry gives him, he quickly gathers up the menus and leaves them alone.

She shifts in her chair and looks around again, before her eyes return to his once more and she gives him a small, tentative smile. “It's nice here,” she says.

He nods. “The food is good too.”

“You come here often.” It's a statement, not a question, and he watches as she drops her eyes from his, fiddling with her napkin, a warmth spreading over his heart and through his body at her reaction. Is she jealous at the thought of him dining here with other women?

“Not really,” he replies, watching as she lifts her eyes to his again, their colour dark in the dim light. “I've not been here in years.”

She smiles and nods before dropping her eyes again to the napkin that she's busy folding and unfolding with her fingers. She did this last time they had dinner too, and it makes his heart swell with hope and simultaneously ache with sadness for all that had been lost.

“You look lovely tonight,” he says, caught up in the memory and his regrets, forgetting for a moment that he's promised himself not to cross any lines this evening, however sorely he is tempted. He'd had such hopes for them back then and they had all come to nothing. He mustn't make the same mistake again. He _will_ be content with what she is willing to give him. He must not ask for more... at least, not yet. He must give her time.

Her fingers still and she freezes for a moment before lifting her eyes back to his, a smile hovering around the corners of her mouth as she says, “Thank you,” and lets her eyes drop to scan his chest, taking in his somewhat rumpled white shirt and tie.

“I didn't have time to change,” he explains, feeling a little self-conscious.

“No,” she agrees. She tilts her head to the side and he watches with fascination as a smile spreads slowly across her lips.

“What?” he asks, a little apprehensively.

She hesitates before she answers. “Next time we do this, we're having a picnic at the beach. I'm dying to see what casual, relaxed Harry Pearce looks like.”

He clears his throat, her words catching him by surprise, smoothing his tie down with his left hand and shifting in his seat before he manages to regain his equilibrium. Playfulness is not something he'd expected from her tonight and he's not quite sure how to respond to it without crossing any lines. “It's the middle of December, Ruth. Hardly the best time for a picnic.”

“I don't know. I'm from Devon. We swim in the sea at Christmas.”

He chuckles. “Do you really?”

“Yes. Haven't you ever heard of the Christmas day swim?”

“I have. I just never realised you'd taken part.”

“Oh I used to do it ever year up until I left home.” She smiles. “The atmosphere is always great and the dip in the freezing water invigorating. You should try it sometime.”

“Thanks, but I think I'll pass.” He smiles at her, pleased that she's shared another little piece of herself with him and a little impressed if he's honest.

“Londoners,” she replies. “Soft. No courage. No sense of adventure at all.” Her eyes are twinkling at him as she teases and it makes her look so young suddenly and so beautiful, so much like the woman she used to be when she first joined Section D and he'd thought her weak, naive, and unlikely to last the month. He couldn't have been more wrong about her and he still doesn't know how he missed it – the steel, the strength, the determination and courage at her core.

“I'm from Reading,” he says, dryly.

“Same difference.” She grins at him then adds, “Just a picnic then.”

He lifts his eyebrows, then suddenly leans forward, unable to resist the temptation any more as he reaches for his tie and pulls it loose, watching with satisfaction as her eyes drop to watch what he's doing. If teasing is what she wants, teasing is what she'll get, he thinks, the sight of her tongue darting out to moisten her lips as he pulls the tie free and undoes a couple of buttons causing his insides to do a little flip and his stomach muscles to tighten. “I tell you what,” he murmurs, his voice involuntarily dropping an octave, “we'll save the picnic for the spring and I'll just... make myself a little more comfortable, shall I?” He pauses, slowly wrapping his tie round his hand and pushing it into his pocket before he removes his cuff-links and begins rolling up his shirtsleeves, all the while watching her face, his heart pounding with the realisation that she wants him.

“Here we are,” their waiter states as he slips into the room again, carrying a tray with a wine bottle and a jug of water. “Your wine.”

For a moment, he wants to pull his tie back out of his pocket and strangle him for his timing, but it only takes him a moment more to realise that it's probably just as well he's made an appearance just now. As thrilling as his discovery is, it's far too soon to be acting on it. She'd wanted him before her exile too, but that hadn't stopped her from ending it too soon between them. In fact, he suspects that perhaps it scares her – the physical attraction between them. He's no idea why it would, whether there is something in her past, some trauma that makes intimacy hard for her. The thought that she might have suffered at the hands of another man makes his heart ache for her and the bile rise in his throat, and he knows that if he ever discovers the identity of this man – if he really exists – he'll be hard pressed not to take matters into his own hands and make him pay dearly for having hurt her. The knowledge though that she shared her life with George – as well as filling his heart with pain and a jealousy so strong it leaves him breathless – makes him realise that it _is_ possible to gain her trust and get her permission to love her fully, in every way he's ever dreamt of, and for _that,_ he's eternally grateful.

A quick glance at her reveals that she's dropped her gaze again, her cheeks flushed, her hands out of sight in her lap, so he turns his attention back to the waiter, accepting the glass he offers him to taste the wine. It's good and vaguely familiar, but he's not really much of a connoisseur of wine – unlike whisky – so he merely nods to the waiter, who fills their glasses and slips out of the room once more with an assurance that their meals will be ready shortly.

Once he's gone, he reaches for the bottle, rotating it to see the label. He recognises it instantly as the same one they'd shared on their date last time – different vintage but the same producer – _White Burgundy._ He freezes, his heart all but stopping then suddenly pounding, his breaths shallow and rapid as he lowers his arm and his eyes dart to her face. She's watching him, cheeks still slightly flushed, eyes so blue and beautiful.

“Ruth?” he whispers, certain of the message she's trying to convey, yet scared to trust it without a verbal confirmation from her.

“I... er...” she begins, then clears her throat before she looks down, smooths her dress, and tries again. “I thought perhaps we could...” She pauses, lifting her eyes to his, her gaze soft and hopeful. “Start again. Not... I mean, I know we can't go back and it won't be exactly the same, but... I wanted to make it clear that I still... I want... _us._ ” She drops her gaze for a moment before lifting it to his again. “Assuming I haven't misread the signs, that is, and this is what you want too...”

This is everything he's wanted, everything he's hoped for for so long that the emotions are utterly overwhelming and he can barely think at all, let alone formulate a reply. And perhaps that is the reason why the first thing that comes out of his mouth once he's found his voice is, “And George?”

She drops her gaze immediately, but not fast enough for him to miss the pain that fills her eyes and he can't help berating himself for his weakness. This is exactly what he'd done to her last time too, in the warehouse. “Sorry,” he says quickly, “that wasn't-”

“No,” she interrupts. “It's fine, Harry. I'd probably be asking the same question if...” She tails off, shaking her head at herself before lifting her eyes to his again and smiling tentatively.

He nods, relieved she's not angry, but regretting asking the question as he waits with bated breath for her next words.

She takes a sip of her wine. “You asked me before if I loved him,” she says, her fingers tracing around the base of her wine glass, her eyes absorbed in watching them. He watches her, his heart sinking to his knees as he tries to tell himself that her feelings for George do not matter. The man is dead, but his shadow looms large between them and he can't help feeling that, in choosing him now, Ruth is settling for him and, had George lived, she would have returned to Cyprus with him and he'd never have seen her again.

“I did,” she admits quietly. “He was a good, kind man – thoughtful, considerate, funny, generous, loving. It wasn't hard to love him. It was simple. Life was simple-”

“And elegant,” he finishes for her, desperately trying to show some understanding, to hide the pain piercing his heart.

Her eyes lift to his and she returns his half-smile, her gaze warm and grateful, but he's sure he's not fooling her at all – she can see straight through him.

“The thing is, Harry,” she adds, pulling her hand from the wine glass and reaching across the table to cover his, leaning towards him, “I never fell in love with George. He courted me and it suited my purpose at the time to let him. He was a good man, pleasant and honest, and he gave me refuge. With time I came to love him, but it's not the same thing.”

He remembers how his love for Jane had changed with time and how stupid he'd been back then not to embrace that change and nurture that love instead of chasing the temporary thrill, the rush of sexual attraction, of falling in love again. Perhaps the way she loved George is better, more healthy, he finds himself thinking as he drops his gaze from hers to her hand, resting on top of his own. Perhaps with time, she can come to love him too, more than she loved the doctor.

“I thought of you everyday,” she confesses softly, her voice a little unsteady now, and when he lifts his eyes to hers, he can see the pain and the love in their depths, and he knows that she never stopped caring, never stopped loving him.

He feels a great weight lift off his heart at this realisation and moves his hands, turning the one she's holding over and covering the back of her hand with the other so that it's trapped between both of his. “So did I,” he murmurs gruffly.


	11. Chapter 11

Their meals arrive and they eat in silence for long moments, each withdrawing into themselves again after the emotional exchange between them. They neither of them find it easy to open up and revealing such deep feelings comes at a great cost to both of them. It was necessary, however, and she hopes that he heard what she was trying to tell him – that her feelings for George were never this strong and that what she had with him, she believes now, would not have lasted. She's too restless a soul to be content living a simple, elegant, mediocre life in obscurity with a nice man, no matter what she told Malcolm at the safehouse. She _was_ happy, but she doesn't think it would have lasted. Not once Nico had hit puberty and started spending all his time with his friends. Not knowing that somewhere in London there was a man she'd not been able to forget, a complicated, irascible, exasperating, yet adorable man who might be waiting for her too, and a chance, however slim, that they might finish what they'd started. She knows that, had she never returned to Britain, missing the opportunity to be with Harry fully – exile or no – would have been her greatest regret in life.

“About this picnic then,” she says once she's recovered her equilibrium and sated some of her hunger.

He lifts his eyes to her face and gives her a delightful half-smile. “I thought we agreed to have one in the spring, Ruth, or must I remove my shirt entirely?”

She giggles in surprise, but doesn't let his words deter her. “We're having one next week at my place.”

He arches his eyebrows. “A picnic? At your place?”

“Indoors,” she clarifies. “Not ideal, I know, but since you won't budge and come to the beach with me...” She grins at him, enjoying teasing him.

“I never said that,” he objects, “but if we go to the beach in December, Ruth, I'll be so tightly wrapped in my coat and scarf, it would defeat the purpose of the exercise.” His eyes are twinkling at her deliciously and she can't help wanting to kiss him.

“And that is why we're having one at mine,” she repeats patiently.

He purses his lips adorably, resting his left elbow on the table and waving his fork around as he speaks. “Let me get this straight. You're inviting me round to your place for dinner – or is it lunch?”

“Whichever suits.”

“Right. So you're inviting me round for, let's say, dinner to sit on your floor-”

“A picnic rug.”

“A picnic rug on your floor, to eat, when there is a perfectly serviceable table in your kitchen?”

“Yes.” She smiles at him. “Go on, Harry, it'll be fun.”

“Fun? You mean like taking a dip in the sea at Christmas kind of fun?”

She laughs. He really is wonderful when he's being sarcastic like this. “Exactly.”

He makes a harrumphing kind of noise and puts his fork down, picking up his napkin to wipe his mouth – and temporarily succeeding in distracting her completely as her eyes linger there and her mind gets lost in thoughts of those lips and all the wonderful things they could do to her – before resting his forearms on the table and leaning towards her. “I think it's important that we get one thing straight right now, Ruth,” he says seriously, making her attention snap back to the present and her heart skip several beats in apprehension. “There are only two things that I'm prepared to do on the floor... and then _only_ when a bed is not available.”

He had her going for a moment there, and as he reaches for his wine, she blinks at him, struggling not to show her annoyance or the heat coursing through her body at the salacious images filling her mind again. “Are you _always_ this difficult?” He's taking a sip of his drink, watching her with a smug kind of look in his eyes that tells her she hasn't fooled him. Her words make him arch an eyebrow, but before he can swallow and reply, she's answered her own question. “Forget I asked. Of course you are. You're Harry Pearce.”

“Now that's not fair, Ruth,” he protests. “You're the one who keeps changing the parameters. As I recall, it was dancing on the beach that started this whole thing. You're the one who changed it to a picnic – to which, I'd like to point out, I have no objection... in the right season and the right setting. And, for the record, I also have no objection to dancing with you in your living room after dinner, tonight or any other night of your choosing.”

Her gaze has softened, her heart expanding with love for him as she watches him defend himself, everything about him – his voice, his movements, his sexy lips, and gorgeous eyes – endearing him to her and she wants to kiss him now, more than ever. She takes a sip of her wine and smiles at him. “Dancing, eh?”

“Well, more of a slow shuffle really,” he clarifies.

“That's my favourite kind of dance,” she replies and sees his face relax into a smile.

“About those things you're willing to do on the floor,” she says, watching with satisfaction as the smile slips from his lips in surprise. “One of them is sleeping, right?”

“Yes.” His eyes twinkle at her, his lips quivering with amusement.

“Right. Just checking.” And with that, she turns back to her food, feeling rather pleased with herself, especially when she realises he's still silently watching her whilst taking sips of his wine.

“You're enjoying this, aren't you?” he enquires after a few moments, lifting the wine bottle and refilling her glass, his gaze on the swirling liquid though she's sure he's watching her reaction closely though his peripheral vision.

“The food? It's delicious.”

“Being a minx,” he clarifies as he rights the bottle and his eyes slip to her face.

“Someone has to keep you on your toes.”

He chuckles and turns his attention to his own glass, refilling that too as he says, “You do remember what I do for a living, don't you?”

She frowns, chewing slowly for a few moments, pretending to think about it while he puts the bottle down and lifts his glass again, watching her. “Pushing papers around all day, wasn't it?”

“And disciplining insolent employees.”

She laughs, eyes sparkling at him as she nods. “I remember.”

She watches with unease as he drops his gaze for a moment, surprised by his reaction. She hadn't intended to spoil the mood or make him feel bad.

“You accused me of having a heart of stone,” he murmurs, taking a rather large mouthful of wine and lifting the bottle to top it up again though it really doesn't need it.

“I was wrong about that,” is her honest reply, and as he looks at her again, she gives him an apologetic smile.

His body stills completely for a moment, then he nods slowly, his shoulders relaxing, his hand releasing the glass that he was about to lift again, fingers tracing patterns around the base of it instead for a few moments before he raises his gaze to hers.

“I thought I did,” he confesses softly, his eyes holding hers. “But then _you_ came along.”

She feels tears prick her eyes and a lump rise in her throat at his quiet admission, and though part of her wants to open up to him too, rise from the table and fall into his arms, there is another part of her – the fearful, intensely private part – that won't let her, so she takes refuge in humour again. “Just in the nick of time,” she says.

“Quite possibly, yes,” he agrees, chuckling softly.

“Glad to have been of service.”

As if on cue, at the word service, their waiter walks into the room and, for a mad moment, Ruth wonders if he'd been spying on them, but she quickly dismisses the thought.

“How are we doing?” he asks, looking from one to the other. “Is there anything more I can get you?”

“No, thanks,” Ruth replies. “Everything's wonderful.”

“Good, good. If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to call me.” He hesitates for a moment as if waiting for a reply, but he seems to realise one won't be forthcoming any time soon and leaves them to stare into each other's eyes in peace, the words from so long ago echoing between them.

_S_ _omething wonderful that was never said._


	12. Chapter 12

When they come out of the restaurant, it's pissing it down, which rather throws a spanner in the works of his plan for a quiet stroll by the river with her.

“Crumbs!” she exclaims and at his questioning look elaborates. “I was hoping we could walk a little.”

He smiles.

“What?”

“It seems you can read my mind.”

“Oh?” She tilts her head sideways, watching him for a moment then declares. “Nope. I'm getting nothing. Must have been a fluke, or a question of great minds thinking alike.”

“I'd like to think it was the latter.”

She smiles then says, “So a taxi then?”

“Yes,” he replies and fishes out his phone.

He's almost dialled the number when she grasps his arm, saying, “Harry, we're in luck. Look!” And sure enough, the taxi coming along the street stops right in front of them and a young couple tumble out, clearly heading for the establishment that they've just vacated, perhaps even the same private room they'd used – the manager had told him that they had a reservation for half-past-nine and they'd have to be done before then.

Within a few minutes, they're quietly seated in the back of the car, each gazing out of their window at the sheets of rain obscuring most of the view. He savours the moment, the quiet contentment that's blanketing his heart, the presence of her by his side, the warm glow in his chest that she's kindled there tonight and that he very much hopes is here to stay, along with her. He doesn't think he could bear it if she pulls away again now.

He turns to look at her, only to find her already watching him.

“I've had a lovely time tonight,” she says and it strikes him suddenly how different she is after her exile, how much more confident and direct. Last time she'd told him the same thing, but they'd been standing at her door and she'd mumbled the words, directing them at his shoes.

“So have I,” he replies, smiling.

“I think we should do this again,” she continues, surprising him. “Tomorrow?”

“ _Tomorrow_?” He fears that he's misheard.

“Yes. It's Saturday. How about lunch? I'll prepare something if you like.”

He can't seem to find his voice as the glow in his heart expands, engulfing him entirely, so he just smiles and nods his agreement.

She turns her body towards him, reaching for his hand and squeezing it with both her own. “I just thought... I don't want you worrying all week that there'll be a repeat of last time. I'm fully committed to seeing where this takes us, Harry, and though I still think it would be wise to keep this... _us_ away from work, I won't be turning tail and running again. I promise.”

He feels tears gather in his eyes so he blinks and looks away, clearing his throat. “Thank you,” he says, unable to come up with anything more profound that'll convey any of the emotions he's feeling right now.

She smiles and squeezes his hand again before pulling away her left one and turning to peer out the window, leaving her other hand in his. They remain like this for the rest of the ride to her home – content, together, holding hands. He hasn't held someone's hand like this since his children had been little and it feels so very good that, when they finally arrive at Ruth's place, it's almost physically painful to let go.

“Tea?” she says quickly, turning to look at him. “Or coffee?”

“That would be grand,” he replies, relieved that she wants him to stay a little longer.

He pays the cabby and together they make their way to her sparsely decorated flat. It speaks to him of her loneliness and grief – this place – the contrast between it and her home before she'd left making his heart ache for her. She'd been so brave, sacrificing herself as she had, for him and the greater good, and this is the reward she'd got for it – uprooted twice in three years, losing everyone she loved, everything she'd known and cared for. It pains him to see it – the way her home has become as functional, as impersonal as his own, like that of any veteran spy. But though he wishes with all his heart that none of this had happened to her, he can't help but also feel grateful that it's brought them closer together, for he is sure that she understands him better now, can appreciate the sacrifices he's made more, and excuse and forgive his many limitations.

“Coffee then?” she asks, having hung up her coat and removed her boots, stepping into her slippers. They are plain and they don't look very warm, so he makes a mental note to get her some better ones, maybe for Christmas.

He twists his mouth. “Do you have anything stronger?”

“I've some wine, but it's not nearly as nice as the one we had earlier,” she confesses. “I don't have any whisky. I thought to buy some last week, but Aldi didn't have much of a selection – nothing you'd approve of anyway.”

He doesn't know whether to be touched that she knows him so well, or offended at the implication that he's a snob. He also makes another mental note to bring over a bottle of good scotch tomorrow to leave in her cabinet for when he pops round – the thought warming his insides more effectively than any drink ever could.

“I'll have whatever you're having,” he says, turning to look at the living room, the warmth inside him growing at the sight of the throw and cushions that used to be his father's lying on her sofa, and suddenly it feels like a sign – that his father is giving him his blessing, though he knows that's a ridiculous thought. _He's_ responsible for his parents' things finding their way here, not his father. No giving or receiving of blessings can be read into it at all, unless he counts his own wish to see Ruth comfortable and surrounded by nice things once more.

“Make yourself at home,” she says. “I'll be right back.” And with that, she disappears into the kitchen, leaving him to hang his coat and cross the room, taking everything in as he goes. She has a small television in the corner and a pile of books on a small table by a bookshelf that seems surprisingly full for someone who's only been back a few months. He wonders if she'd like to take in the rest of his father's book collection and the bookshelves they live on. They're still at his flat, waiting for him to do something about them – assuming Catherine didn't take them all when she was there two days ago with her brother. Maybe he'll suggest it tomorrow over lunch, see how Ruth feels about it.

His eyes leave the books, looking for a CD player or something that'll allow him to put some music on, but he finds none. Yet another possible Christmas present, he decides as he takes a seat on the sofa, setting his phone face down on the small, coffee table, then leaning back and closing his eyes for a moment, listening to the sounds of clinking glass coming from the kitchen. A loud thunk, followed by an exclamation of “Shit!” has him smiling fondly and he can't help the way his heart expands with joy and love as the realisation hits him that he and Ruth are _finally_ seeing one another, _dating_ , forging a new, personal relationship away from work.

“Is a G&T alright?” she asks when she finally joins him.

“Thank you,” he replies, accepting the glass she hands him.

She smiles and takes a seat beside him before reaching forward for her own glass and raising it. “To us,” she says, smiling as she clinks her glass against his.

“Us,” he murmurs in agreement and takes a sip of the drink. It's not his favourite alcoholic beverage, but it's not as bad as some and, besides, he'd be willing to drink pretty much anything to stay with Ruth a little while longer.

“There's something I've been meaning to ask you,” she says, then leans forward to set her glass down again before turning to him once more. “How did you clear my name?”

He takes a sip of his drink. “Through the Home Secretary.”

“And he just... gave you what you wanted?”

He smiles, not really surprised that she's not accepting that at face value. “We reached an understanding some months ago. He owed me.”

She watches him for a moment in silence. “It must have been something pretty big that you had on him.”

“It was,” he agrees, taking another sip of his drink.

“But you don't want to share,” she says, more statement than question. She doesn't look upset by this, or in any way accusing, and he can't help the way his gaze softens and his heart fills with love for her – this beautiful, brilliant, remarkable woman.

“There was an incident with Iran a few months ago. In an effort to keep the peace, Blake put his trust in the wrong people. Instead of coming to me, he hired an assassin – an IRA terrorist no less – to kill me and everyone else on the team. Needless to say, I was not pleased.”

She doesn't looked shocked to hear this, a little surprised maybe and relieved that he's survived it, but not at all shocked. _A born spook._ He supposes, after the way Mace behaved, why would she be surprised that any politician would be any different? People who seek power over others will stoop as low as necessary to maintain it, and they both know it.

“Thank you,” she murmurs softly, reaching her hand forward to softly stroke his forearm, the frisson making his heart skip a few beats. “For telling me... and for trading in such a big favour for me, for getting my life back. I don't believe I said that before.”

“You don't need to thank me, Ruth. It's the least I could do after-”

“I think I do,” she interrupts, her fingers gripping his arm more firmly, her other hand rising to cup his cheek as she leans towards him and he momentarily forgets how to breathe. “Thank you,” she whispers again before her lips press softly against his own and his eyes slide shut in bliss, her kiss gentle and loving – the stuff of his dreams.

Time stops entirely for he knows not how long, but when she pulls back, it seems to catapult him forward again in a rush, leaving him feeling breathless and slightly dazed. To his delight, however, she doesn't pull back, her face staying close, hand resting gently on his left shoulder, waiting for him to recover, and recover he does, whispering her name as he lifts one hand to her face and draws her closer for more.

They're soft, gentle kisses, loving, chaste, and proper, and he has to exercise some serious self-control to make sure he doesn't cross the line into passion, her unconscious hums and sounds of pleasure sorely tempting him to let go and throw himself whole-heartedly into the kiss. It is too soon, however, and he knows it.

“If this is my reward,” he whispers when they eventually break apart, “I fear I will do anything for you, Ruth.”

She laughs a breathless laugh and tilts her head forward, resting her forehead on his shoulder and forcing his left hand to fall away from her face towards her neck and shoulder, her own hands dropping down his body, gliding down over his shirt to his waist and awakening every nerve along their path, his mind silently willing her to continue further, his body almost trembling with desire and the effort at self-control. When her hands stop their journey, he turns his head towards her, tilting it so he can breathe in the scent of her – the citrusy smell of her shampoo, the stronger, flowery essence of her perfume, and below that, the subtle hint of Ruth, the most perfect scent of all. He starts to gently rub her right shoulder and neck, her quiet moan of encouragement making him dig a little deeper into the muscles, massaging away any tension he finds there.

“Harry.” She sighs his name like it is the most beautiful, perfect, blissful word in the world, and he has to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from pouring all his love into her in any way he can.

His right hand is still cradling his glass, resting on his thigh between then, and he suddenly feels a desperate need to take a large gulp of the clear liquid inside. His fingers flex, pressing it into his palm, but he continues to gently stroke Ruth's back, reluctant to let her go, lest an opportunity like this doesn't arise again for some time.

In the end, it's Ruth who moves away first, lifting her head and sitting up, removing his glass from his unresisting fingers and taking a sip of his drink, her gaze warm, eyes alight with joy and love, cheeks a little warm and flushed. “I wish I had my mother's talent for painting or poetry,” he murmurs. “You're absolutely breathtaking.”

She smiles – only increasing her beauty in his eyes – and hands the glass back to him, his fingers wrapping round it reflexively. “Luckily for you,” she replies with an impish grin, “I happen to believe that actions speak louder than words, and these lips of yours...” Here she lifts her right hand to his chin, her thumb tracing the swell of his bottom lip and sending arrows of pleasure straight to his core. “Are as soft and wonderful as I remember, and extremely good at action.”

He moans, all articulate thought and speech gone as she leans in for another kiss, and this time he cannot seem to stop himself from devouring her. He sucks and licks and nips her lips, his passion building, matched by her own, her arms slipping around his neck, drawing him closer, her moans of encouragement music to his ears. Soon he is so engrossed in the bliss of kissing her that everything else has faded away and he's not at all sure where this might have ended had he not completely forgotten about the G&T in his hand and spilt it all over them.

She makes a surprised little sound against his mouth and pulls back, looking down at the damp spot, some of the drink having landed on her dress, some on his trousers, and the rest on the sofa between them.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, his voice husky with arousal. “I forgot I was holding the glass.”

She giggles, eyes sparkling as she looks up at him. “I can't blame you. I forgot pretty much everything else. _You_ , Harry Pearce, are a fantastic kisser.”

He smiles, feeling rather chuffed by her praise, then slowly lifting his hand to her face, drawing a few wayward strands of her hair out of her eyes and tucking them behind her ear. “I think perhaps, I should go home now, Ruth.”

“Worried I'll take advantage of you?” she asks with an impish smile.

He hums. “Something like that, yes.”

She smiles and nods, leaning back and smoothing her dress with her hands before she reaches for her drink. She takes a sip and holds the glass out to him. “Want some of mine? I fear I made you spill yours.”

He takes it from her hand, muttering darkly, “Just as well it was just the Gin,” and it's only as he takes a mouthful of the liquid that his mind catches up with what he's said. For a second he freezes in panic, but then Ruth bursts out laughing and he relaxes again, lowering the glass and turning to look at her, a fond smile hovering around his mouth. “It's good to see you laugh,” he confesses softly.

She smiles, wiping her eyes with back of her hand, her gaze alight and sparkling at him. “It's good to be laughing again, to be able to just _be..._ in the moment.” He nods, understanding exactly what she means. He too gets lost in his thoughts when he's alone, almost drowning under the weight of his guilt and regrets, his failures and everything they've cost him.

“Tomorrow then?” he asks, holding out the glass to her.

She takes it and brings it to her lips, swallowing the rest of the G&T before taking the other one from his other hand and placing them both back on the tray she'd used to bring them in from the kitchen. “Tomorrow. Lunch. Shall we say twelve?”

“Twelve,” he agrees. “I'll bring some wine.”

“That'll be lovely.”

He gets lost in her eyes for a moment, heart as light as a feather, before he manages to shake himself free of the spell and get up, taking the tray from the coffee table and carrying it thought to the kitchen despite her telling him to leave it.

“Thank you,” she says with a smile, once he's deposited it on the kitchen table and returned to her side.

“Thank _you,_ Ruth,” he replies. He wants to tell her how much he loves her, of the boundless joy and hope she's brought to his life already, but he can't find the words, and besides, it's probably too soon for that anyway. It's not been that long at all since George was taken from her and he doesn't want to press her. He's got to be mindful of that.

They move the few paces to her front door, his mind preoccupied with making it clear to her that he intends to honour that and to let their relationship unfold slowly, trying to decide whether he should say something tonight lest she get the wrong message from their heated kisses, or if it's best to leave it for tomorrow when his thinking will be clearer and he can plan exactly what he wants to say.

“What?” she asks when they stop by her door, her gaze earnest as she looks up at him, her brow creased by a frown.

“Nothing.” He smiles at her, marvelling at her ability to read him so well.

“Something's worrying you, Harry. Something about us. Just tell me.”

“Are you sure you can't read my mind?” he jokes, feeling a little uncomfortable now.

“If I could, I wouldn't need to ask you what's the matter.”

He rubs his forehead with thumb and fingers, trying to get his thoughts in order before he speaks, wanting to make sure this comes out right.

“I've had a wonderful time tonight, Ruth,” he says eventually, dropping his hand to his side again and meeting her gaze with his own. “Really, _really_ wonderful. You know...” He pauses. “You _must_ know how much this means to me.”

She smiles and nods, reaching for his hands and taking them both in her own. “And to me, Harry.”

“Good,” he says, relieved. “That's good... I wanted to make it clear though that I _understand_ that it takes time to... recover from the end of a relationship, especially when it's so sudden and tragic and not of your choosing. It took me two, probably closer to three years to put my divorce behind me, despite the fact that the relationship was beyond salvation and I knew it.” He squeezes her hands, watching with concern as her eyes fill with tears. “I'm here for you, Ruth. As a friend, first and foremost. Talk to me. Don't feel you need to hide your emotions away. I'm not going to fly into a jealous rage,” he says, pleased to see her lips twitch at that and her head nodding slowly, even as her eyes blink rapidly to clear her tears. “I'm strong enough to help shoulder your pain, to hold you while you cry for him – them, for George and Nico – to hear you speak of them fondly and with love. Contrary to popular belief on the Grid, I know something of loss and of love, Ruth, and I am a patient man. I'll not rush you. I promise. Whatever pace suits _you_ is the right pace for us.”

She smiles, a couple of tears escaping her eyes and sliding down her face, his heart constricting at the sight of them. “You're wonderful,” she says in an unsteady voice and steps into his arms where he draws her close and holds her while she weeps, his lips pressing repeated, loving kisses against her hair, the words _I love you_ repeating silently like a mantra in his mind, unable somehow to slip past his lips yet, though he's certain that she knows it. Both of them know what the _something wonderful that was never said_ was, both of them feel it, now more than ever.

 _The words will come,_ he tells himself. _When the timing's right, the words will be said by us both._


	13. Chapter 13

She's happy. She hasn't felt this happy and hopeful in such a long time.

She glances at the clock.

11:34

Just enough time for a shower while the spaghetti boils, then hopefully enough time to dress too before Harry arrives. She hopes he'll not be early. She rather overdid the cleaning and tidying this morning. She's always had far too much energy for her own good when feeling happy like this.

Her phone begins to ring, so she reaches for it, stirring the sauce as she answers, a smile on her lips. “Hello, Harry.”

“Good morning, Ruth. How are you?” His voice is full of warmth, striking that special timber it takes on when he's set thoughts of work and imminent disaster aside for a moment and is focusing on her, and it makes her toes curl with pleasure.

“I'm fine. Cooking.”

“Not something time sensitive, I hope.”

“No,” she replies, turning off the ring for the sauce.

“Good, because I'm running a little late.”

“How late is a little?”

“About half an hour to forty minutes? Sorry. I know I was late yesterday too.”

“That's alright. I could use an extra half hour this morning,” she says, meaning it. Now she can finish the cooking before having that shower and getting dressed in peace. She'll even have time to dry her hair.

“Good.” He sounds relieved. “I'll see you soon then.”

“Yes.”

“Bye, Ruth,” he murmurs and hangs up.

She smiles, setting the phone aside for now and busying herself putting the finishing touches on their meal and the table settings. She drains the pasta, mixing in the Stroganoff sauce and setting it aside while she makes her way to the bathroom for her shower.

She's ready in the nick of time, in the end, and has only just come through to the kitchen, saying, “Right. What more is there left to do, Ruth?” when the buzzer sounds.

He appears at her door in his long, velvet-collared coat, carrying a large bag in his left hand and a bouquet of flowers in his right. “For you,” he says and hands her the flowers.

“Oh, they're lovely,” she replies, her face breaking into a delighted grin. “Sunflowers are my favourites. They're such happy-”

“Fun and sunny flowers,” he finishes for her, looking pleased that he's made the right choice. “I remember.”

“You remember?” She frowns. They've never discussed flowers as far as she knows.

“When Zoe's fiancée sent her flowers,” he explains, “I overheard you telling Sam.”

Her face melts, overcome by him.

“The gardenias are my favourites,” he continues after clearing his throat. “For future reference,” he adds, clearly attempting to hide his embarrassment with humour.

She laughs. “I'm impressed. You're turning into quite the twenty-first century man.” He purses his lips adorably, perhaps unsure if she's being serious or teasing, and she has to tilt her head down to hide her smile in the flowers. “Mmmm,” she hums. “They do smell lovely. They're so different but they look nice together, don't they?”

“Yes.” His voice sounds a little husky now, and she wonders if he's thinking that the flowers are symbolic of the two of them.

“Thank you.” She smiles up at him and hums with pleasure when he leans down to press a soft kiss against her lips. She wants to wrap her arm around his neck, hold him to her, and spend the rest of the day kissing him, but she sternly reminds herself that they need to eat first, so she turns and takes a step towards the kitchen, saying, “Come on in. I'll just put these in a vase of water.” She falters, frowning. “Crumbs! I don't think I have a vase,” she mutters, then blushes, feeling foolish.

As it turns out, he already assumed as much. “I thought a vase was unlikely to have been the first thing on your mind when you moved here, so I took the liberty of bringing one of those along too.” He looks adorable as he holds out a gift bag uncertainly, waiting for her to take it.

“You think of everything,” she says, impressed and loving him even more for his thoughtfulness. Who'd have thought that Harry Pearce had it in him to be as romantic, as kind and considerate as this? “Thank you.” She takes the bag from his hand and reaches up to quickly kiss his cheek before hurrying through to the kitchen where she can put the flowers down and open the bag. She expects it to be a plain, colourless glass one, but it turns out to be absolutely stunning, streaked with a myriad colours, like a rainbow come to life and just the kind of thing she would have chosen if she'd had the money, the time, and the inclination to shop for it.

“Do you like it?”

“Like it? It's gorgeous! It's a piece of art, Harry,” she whispers, moved beyond words to be receiving such a beautiful gift from him. “Where did you find it?”

“In my kitchen,” he confesses softly, making her frown and turn to face him.

He's removed his coat and is wearing the jumper she'd chosen for him from amongst his father's clothes, the colour picking out his eyes just perfectly, as she knew it would, and for a moment, she's distracted enough to lose track of their conversation and forget the reason she'd turned to him.

“Ruth?” he prompts, his eyes twinkling at her deliciously.

She blinks and looks down at her hands again, only to see the vase and remember what he'd said that had surprised her. “What do you mean in your kitchen?”

“It belonged to my mother,” he explains. “I never use it and I thought it was the kind of thing you'd like, so I brought it along, just in case it was needed and wanted.”

“Let me guess. Her favourite flower was the gardenia.”

He smiles.

“It's beautiful, Harry, but I can't keep it. Surely your children would-”

“But I want _you_ to have it, Ruth,” he interrupts, moving to stand beside her. “If you truly like it.”

She bites her lip, hesitating for a moment before she nods. “I love it, but-”

“But nothing. Think of it as a loan, if it makes you feel better, but it's yours, Ruth. It's only sitting in a cupboard in my kitchen, gathering dust.”

She sighs, knowing she's beaten, a little voice in her head telling her that, with any luck, she won't need to worry about this kind of thing for long. If things go well between them, perhaps by this time next year, they'll be living together, sharing things like this vase and those beautiful lampshades at his father's place that she'd so loved, or the chess set that had been _her_ father's, which she'd had at her old place and that she's sure her mother won't have given away. “Alright. I'll borrow it. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he replies, looking pleased to have won her round.

She turns to the sink and fills the vase with water before grabbing the kitchen scissors and turning her attention to the flowers, arranging them in the vase, then carefully carrying them over to the kitchen table, positioning them at the edge of it and against the wall between their place settings. “There,” she says happily. “They look lovely.”

He's been busy while she's been arranging the flowers, having opened and poured the wine he's brought with him, and now he hands her a glass. She takes it, smiling up at him. “To us,” she says, unable to get past the joy of saying it, to Harry of all people.

“And to many more moments together like this one,” he adds, watching her over the rim of his glass as they both take a sip of their wine.

“Mmmm,” she hums. “That's good wine.”

“You know what's even better?” he asks, voice velvety and soft.

“Whisky?” she suggests with an impish smile.

“Tasting it on your lips,” he replies, dipping his head down to capture them and causing her breath to hitch.

Last night, she'd come to the conclusion that he's some sort of a magician when it comes to kissing, but within a few seconds of _this_ kiss, she's convinced that he's actually a sorcerer casting spells. And it's not just his lips either. His hands are equally seductive, perhaps doubly so, finding all the places on her face, her neck and back that make her tremble, especially once he's put both their wineglasses back on the table and drawn her into his arms, both his hands free now, to roam over her body as his lips seduce her, and he's not even reaching for her breasts or bum or any of the most sensitive places yet.

They pull up for air and she leans into him, needing the support for a moment while she catches her breath and her heart stops pounding.

“Alright?” he asks huskily, like he doesn't know what he's done to her body.

“Mmmm,” she hums in the affirmative, enjoying the warmth of him, the softness of his jumper against her cheek, listening to the beating of his heart as it slows.

“Too much?” he asks next.

“Just right,” is her reply. She loves that he's checking with her, making sure she's comfortable and he's not crossing any boundaries. “I was right about this jumper. It looks good on you.” She leans back, looking up at him as he releases her, his hands drifting down to her waist while hers continue to rest on his chest.

“I have a confession to make,” he murmurs, making her frown. “I don't actually seem to own any casual clothes. I searched quite thoroughly this morning, but I only found suits and shirts.” He looks a little sheepish as he says it, then his eyes take on a wonderfully mischievous look and he adds, “Other than pyjamas, of course, and this jumper.”

She laughs and pulls away, turning towards the cooker to lift the saucepan with their food and return to the table as she says, “Well, you have several months to remedy that before we have our picnic dance on the beach.”

“That's true,” he concedes, taking the seat she motions him to.

“I hope you like mushrooms.”

“I like everything, Ruth.”

“That's lucky because there's raspberries and cream for dessert.”

“Even better.” He smiles up at her. “Thank you, Ruth.”

“You haven't tasted it yet.”

“I don't need to. Thank you for making this for us, for letting me...” He tails off and she's unsure if he's struggling to find the right words or is just overwhelmed by emotion.

“Snog me senseless?” she suggests.

He chuckles. “Yes. Especially that.”

“Well, it was my pleasure. As I said yesterday, you're very good at it. You must have had a fair bit of practice.”

“Training for when I met you,” he replies quickly, making her heart and face melt again.

“You're very naughty, Harry,” she sighs, taking the seat across from him.

“You have no idea, Ruth.” He wiggles his eyebrows at her, making her laugh.

“I'm sure I'll find out eventually. Tuck in.”

He opens his mouth, getting ready to say something, but he seems to think better of it, closing it once more and giving her a soft smile before turning to his food as bidden.

“Mmm,” he hums around his first mouthful. “This is very good.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I don't mean to,” he says quickly.

“Well, you should. I don't normally cook much and this is actually rather good by my standards. I _always_ manage to burn the toast in the morning.”

He laughs. “I'll bear that in mind if you ever offer to make me breakfast.”

She feels her face heat up as her mind floods with images of some of the things that might happen in order for them to reach the point of having breakfast together, then flushes even more as a picture of George laughing as she tries to smear jam on his cheek at breakfast takes their place and she drops her gaze, overcome by an utterly confusing mixture of longing, grief and guilt for a moment.

“I'm sorry, Ruth,” she hears him murmur and, when she lifts her gaze to his, the contrite look in his eyes has her feeling even more guilty.

“It's fine, Harry,” she says quickly, reaching for his hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Really. It was a surprise, that's all, though I don't know why it would be.” She takes a sip of her wine for courage before adding softly, “I'd very much like to see your pyjamas sometime, you know. Especially since they're the only casual clothing you own at the moment.”

He smiles warmly at that and nods, taking a mouthful of his own wine before replying, “I'm sure that can be arranged... whenever you are ready.”

She smiles and nods, then changes the subject entirely. “What are you doing for Christmas?”

“Not much,” he replies, looking a little relieved to be on safer ground again. “You?”

“I'm spending it in Exeter, with Mum and David.”

“Right,” he says, lifting his wine glass and taking a generous gulp before turning back to his food, and she has the feeling that he's a little disappointed that there won't be an opportunity for them to spend it together.

“You could come too, if you like,” she offers before she can think better of it.

He looks up, surprised but pleased. “Isn't that...?”

“Too soon?” she guesses. “It probably is,” she concedes. “I was just thinking that...” She tails off, uncertain.

“What?” he asks encouragingly.

“Well, I'm never going to meet your parents now and you'll never meet my dad. I thought it might be nice to have you at least meet Mum before...” She tails off as a horrible thought occurs to her. “Unless, you were the one who told her that-”

“No,” Harry interrupts quickly. “I wasn't. I believe Zaf did that. I was out of the country, rescuing my daughter. I've never met your mother, Ruth.”

“What happened to your daughter?” she asks with concern.

He waves a hand dismissively. “Lebanon. Long story. Important thing is I found her and brought her home.”

She smiles and nods, taking another sip of her wine. “I guess that explains it then.”

“What does?”

“Why Mum never believed me dead. Zaf must have kept his word.” He's looking at her keenly, silently encouraging her to elaborate, so she explains. “I made him promise to make sure she knew I was alive, tell her that I'd needed to go into witness protection and would contact her when it was safe and I was home again.”

She watches him for his reaction, but he only looks relieved. “I'm glad you did that.”

She smiles. “Me too. I sent her postcards, just to reassure her I was alright.”

He frowns and looks down, hesitating for a moment before returning to eating his food.

“Harry?” she says uncertainly, confused by his suddenly shifting mood.

He tires to hide it, but she can see the pain in his eyes as he looks at her.

“What is it?”

He chews slowly and swallows, reaching for his glass and draining it before he gives them both a top up. “You sent me a postcard too.”

“Yes,” she agrees, still puzzled until it suddenly dawns on her what's the matter. “But I sent her more than one. Is that it?”

He hesitates then nods, setting the bottle aside and lifting his glass again to drink.

“I wanted to send you more. I _wanted_ to catch a flight back home just to see you, but I knew I couldn't. I'd made a choice and part of that choice involved letting you go. Mum will always be my mum. She'll always love me, but you... I wanted you to be happy. It wouldn't have been fair to...” She pauses, looking for the right word as she moves her food around her plate with her fork, the emotions from her exile still strong and somewhat overwhelming.

“Ruth,” he murmurs softly, and when she looks up, his eyes are warm like honey. “I could never be happy without you.”

Her face crumbles, tears leaking from her eyes even as she tries to calm herself, wiping them furiously away with her hands, but it's useless. She gets up, intent on escaping to her room, but he's before her in an instant, drawing her into his arms as he murmurs quiet words of encouragement and comfort, telling her to let it all out, reassuring her that he's here for her, and she has to admit that it feels so very good to be held by him as she falls apart.

As her sobs and tears slow, he guides her slowly out of the kitchen to the living room and settles her on the sofa, handing her a tissue box and taking the throw from the back of the settee and gently wrapping it around her shoulders before he draws her into his arms again, pillowing her head on his shoulder and softly stroking her hair while he holds her.

“I'd like to spend Christmas with you,” he whispers eventually, once her breathing's quietened and they've slipped into a contented silence.

She smiles. “So would I,” she whispers back. She feels his lips press softly against her forehead and sighs in bliss. “I'm going down on Christmas Eve, but maybe you could join us on Christmas day for lunch? We usually go down to the beach for the swim at eleven and then go back home for a late Christmas lunch. What do you think?” She wipes her eyes and pulls out of his arms, so she can turn to see his face.

“I wouldn't be required to swim?”

She smiles. “No. Swimming is optional. David never does. It's usually just me and Mum, though I don't know if she'll be doing it this year. My dad loved it. He started the whole thing.”

“Is that why you do it?” he asks gently.

She nods, looking down at her hands. “He used to have to bribe me when I was little, but after he was gone, I used to wish that there was some way I could bribe _him_ to join us again, one last time.” She blinks to clear the sheen of tears from her eyes and shakes her head at herself. “Listen to me,” she sighs. “Silly.”

“No, it's not, Ruth. You were still a child.” He covers her hands with his own, gently squeezing them. “Wishing for one more minute, one more hour is pretty normal even for an adult.” She lifts her gaze to his and finds him giving her a soft look and a gentle smile. “I know _I_ did.”

She knows he's speaking of their separation now, when he stood by the Thames and watched her float away all those months ago. “So did I,” she replies, unclasping her hands so she can hold his instead. She feels tears gather in her eyes again at the openness and honesty of the moment, but she figures she's done enough crying for one day, so she takes refuge in humour. “Though mainly it was one more kiss that a wished for.”

He smiles, eyes alight with pleasure and love as he lifts his other hand to her face and draws her in, slowly, seductively, pressing his lips against her forehead first and asking, “Like this?” then moving to the side of her face, “Or this?”, her cheek, then her nose, the corner of her mouth.

“You're getting warmer,” she manages to say.

“You make me burn,” is his husky reply before his lips descend on hers.


	14. Chapter 14

 

One touch of her breast and all the erotic thoughts he's ever had about her seem to flood his mind at once, making it virtually impossible to stop, to resist the moan of pleasure that escapes her lips, the gasp and breathless way she whispers his name, and yet he knows he must, he knows this cannot go any further now. She may appear strong, but he _knows_ that she is still fragile and he must protect her, from himself and his passionate, reckless nature especially.

Years of training in self-control give him the strength to still his body, focus his mind on the air rushing in and out of his lungs, but though the easiest thing would be to stand and walk away, he cannot bring himself to leave her, release her from his arms, this woman that embodies all that is good and true in his world. He wants to cling to her for all eternity, but he knows that he'll only be able to hold back for so long if she continues to run her hands up and down his body like this, if her lips don't stop kissing his neck, if her tongue – _Christ!_

“Dance with me,” he says, grasping at the idea as it flits through his mind, the most innocent of the thoughts currently bouncing around inside it.

She hums, so he takes that as a yes and extracts himself from her embrace to cross the room back to the kitchen, relieved that he can do so with his back towards her and desperately hoping he can calm himself enough while he retrieves the last two items from the bag he brought with him, so his state of arousal isn't quite so apparent. The thought of the embarrassment of holding his hand out to Ruth in invitation while sporting a raging erection does the trick and he can already feel his mind clearing, the lust subsiding once more.

There are three things left in the bag, he realises as he opens it, extracting the whisky bottle and setting it aside on the kitchen counter before lifting out the portable CD player he's brought with him and the zipped case of CDs. Then he turns and walks back into the living room.

A quick glance around the room, tells him the best place for the music player is the bookshelf, so he strides over to it, setting the player down on a half-empty shelf, plugging it in, and switching on the socket.

“Another item that just happened to be lying around your house unused?” Ruth asks as he straightens up, her eyes sparkling. She's crossed the room to his side and is looking up at him expectantly.

“You could say that,” he replies, unwilling to admit that he went out and bought it for her at Argos and that it's the reason he was late arriving. He'd wanted to test it out, make sure it was working and that all the stickers and things that might betray how new it is had been removed. He wants to shower her with gifts, but he's scared she'll not like that. Far better to temper his desires, to 'lend' her things that he supposedly never uses, though he's planning on getting her at least three Christmas presents all the same. He'll just tell her that they're for the three Christmases they've missed spending together.

“Sitting in your cupboard gathering dust, was it?” She's smiling impishly, and for a moment, he thinks she's seen straight through his ruse.

“This one was in a box,” he replies, sticking as close to the truth as possible.

“And the CDs?” she asks, reaching for the case he's placed on the shelf beside the player while he turns it on, squinting at the tiny writing beside the sliding switch in the hopes of deciphering which position will turn on the CD, rather than the radio or tape player.

“I picked out a few from my collection.”

She hums, having unzipped the case and began flicking through the dozen or so CDs in it. “Mum said she has a few boxes of my things in the attic,” she confides. “Perhaps I'll find some of my old CDs in them.”

He frowns, surprised to hear that Ruth hasn't already retrieved her possessions from her mother's. He'd assumed she'd lost everything when she'd left, but if her mother knew the truth of her exile, it would make sense that she'd keep quite a bit of what Ruth had left behind. He would have gladly stored the whole lot for her had he had the opportunity to speak with her mother about it, but Catherine had needed him and, by the time he'd got back, everything had been done and dusted, even Ruth's funeral. He hadn't even had a chance to keep his promise to Ruth to adopt her cats. By the time he'd returned, a home had already been found for them. “I could load them in the car. Drive them up for you,” he offers, feeling a pang of guilt. He should come clean about the cats, but somehow he still lacks the courage. She hasn't mentioned them at all, which makes him think she must suspect the truth and is perhaps scared to confirm it or make him feel guilty by asking.

She lifts her head and smiles at him, his heart skipping several beats at the love shining in her eyes. “You're wonderful.”

He clears his throat. “There's not many people who'd agree with you there, Ruth.” _Me included._

“Maybe not, but that doesn't change the fact that you are.” She reaches up to kiss his cheek. “Let's try this out then, shall we?” She slips a CD out of the case and sets it in the player, pressing Play, and soon Matt Monro's clear voice fills the room.

She turns to him and smiles. “Your mother's favourite singer.”

“I couldn't help but notice you were moved by the song the other day.”

She nods. “It made me think of you, of the way I felt after our date.”

He draws her into his arms, marvelling at how perfectly she fits there, at how wonderful is the sensation of holding her while they shuffle about the room to melodies he remembers from his childhood.

 _We were fools, you and I,_  
Now we know it.  
We stood still as the days moved along.  
Love was ours, but our eyes didn't show it.  
Suddenly, we can see we were wrong.

 

“I was such a fool, Harry,” she mumbles into his chest. “I'm so sorry.”

He squeezes her against him. “None of that now, Ruth. I think you're missing the point of the song. This world's yours and mine now,” he echoes the lyrics.

She lifts her head and smiles up at him. “And water tastes like wine.”

“I wouldn't know, Ruth. I haven't tasted water since the 1990s, but _you_ most certainly do,” he replies, tilting his head down towards hers.

She giggles, meeting his lips eagerly for a kiss that he makes sure is short and sweet. Her eyes remain closed as he pulls back, her lips smiling softly for a moment before her eyelids slide open again, eyes so mesmerising and blue. He wants to tell her how beautiful she is, how he could spend all day just gazing at her, listening to her speak, how much it means to him to be here, dancing with her in her living room, but when he opens his mouth, none of that makes it to his lips. Instead he says, “I love you.”

The words slip past his lips before he can stop them, and for a moment he panics, fearing it is too soon, but then she smiles so brightly, dimples creasing her cheeks, her eyes sparkling up at him with such joy, that he realises that it's not too soon at all. His words from long ago echo through his mind – _If I don't tell you now, I never will –_ and he's so grateful suddenly that they have not come true, that he's been given a second chance with her, against all odds and in spite of everything he's done to forfeit such a chance. He's not sure he deserves it, but he sure as hell is going to grasp it, and Ruth, with both hands and never look back.

 _Let's not talk of all the times we've been lonely,_  
But let us speak of the times we will know.  
From today, I will live for you only,  
Wish I'd said all these things long ago.

 

“I love you too,” she says, just standing there, gazing into his eyes.

He knows not how long they remain thus, lost in each other, but when the final notes of the song fade into silence, he comes back to himself, blinking and clearing his throat before releasing her, catching her hands as they slide down his chest before they reach her sides.

She smiles. “The food's probably stone cold by now. I should warm it up again.”

“Mmmm,” he hums. “Good idea.” And with that, he follows her into the kitchen.

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm afraid this is the epilogue for this fic, as it seems like the right time to stop and start a new one. Thank you all for sticking with me and continuing to read and review. I very much appreciate each and every one of you. Cheers, S.C.

The day of the wedding dawns crisp and clear, and the drive away from London is all the more pleasant for it. Greg and Graham have planned a small gathering of close friends and family in a lovely converted barn, near Northampton where Greg's parents live, that's rented out for such occasions. She's nervous but also rather excited about it, at turns anxious about seeing Graham again and meeting Catherine – not to mention Harry's ex who is sure to be there – but also looking forward to it and the opportunity to be part of something grander than the two of them. This will be the first time they do something together as a couple that includes other people – she doesn't count Christmas with her mum and David, even though Harry had been almost gleeful of the opportunity to wrap her up in a towel when she'd come out of the sea and hold her close as he rubbed his hands up and down her back to warm her. It'll also be the first time they sleep together – no, sleep is the wrong word. They _have_ slept together, in the same bed, on more than one occasion, but they haven't yet made love – a fact that she plans to remedy later tonight though Harry doesn't know it yet.

Greg and Graham are there to greet them as soon as they arrive, and they both seem pleased to see her again, which allows her to begin to relax a little. Graham even thanks her for making sure Harry left the office behind for the occasion, but though she laughs at the joke, she is quick to reassure him that his father has been looking forward to their wedding all week and would have been here regardless. Harry and Graham both look a little embarrassed by this revelation, but they both seem pleased too, and she's glad of the opportunity to nudge them a little closer together. She can't fathom having a father one doesn't adore, or feeling so awkward around one's child, and in that moment, she's very glad that she was born a woman and doesn't have to deal with all these bizarre rituals and emotional constrictions that men seem to have to live with in order to fit in.

Greg introduces them to his mother and step-father and some of his other family who happen to be milling around just inside the entrance, drinking mulled wine and catching up with each other's news. After a few minutes of polite conversation, however, they both feel the need to escape, so Harry gets them some more mulled wine to keep the winter chill at bay and they spend a few quiet moments outside together whilest they wait for the appointed hour for the ceremony to begin, enjoying the sunshine and each other's company, though the clear skies make for a rather frosty day, the rays of the sun doing nothing to warm them. It's funny to think that in a couple of hours it'll be dark already.

“Recognise anyone?” she asks after a moment as they watch the various guests arriving and disappearing into the building. A few of them nod in their direction, but she's not sure if they recognise Harry or if they're merely being polite. None seem to want to brave the cold and stand outside like them at any rate.

“One or two faces,” he murmurs, before taking a sip of his wine, and she wonders if they're so few because they're mostly Greg's friends and relations, or if it's because their friendship with Graham is relatively new. Of course, it's also possible that Harry was such a distant and infrequent presence in Graham's life that he never met any of Graham's school friends. She feels a pang at the thought and reaches for his glove covered hand, squeezing it gently and offering him a soft smile. He's such a wonderful man and capable of so much love that she feels sad at the thought of all the opportunities he's missed to be with his children, know them and love them as they all so desperately needed.

He smiles softly in return, gazing into her eyes for long moments before turning and reaching down to kiss her. There aren't many people about, but she blushes all the same, a little embarrassed to be kissed in public like this, though not embarrassed enough to think about pulling back or asking him not to. It's the first time he's kissed her outside either of their homes and, if she's honest, it thrills her a little, making her heart race.

He's been so patient with her and so careful, following her lead, allowing her to pull away whenever she feels the need, often in spite of his obvious arousal, and telling her that he's prepared to wait for her as long as it takes – though he hopes she'll be ready for more before he's too old to get it up any longer. She'd laughed out loud when he'd said that, promising him that it wouldn't be _that_ long and kissing him soundly. And it's not that she's not been tempted – far from it. But she's needed this time for the pain to subside, for her to really let go of George and Nico, and to really get to know Harry and create new memories with him that are stronger, more vivid than those from Cyprus, so that, when they finally make love, it is a joyous occasion, full of love and hope, without a glimmer of sorrow or pain.

Being with Harry has been so much easier than she ever dreamt it would be and it's all thanks to him. He's so good to her, so kind and considerate, and even after a stressful day on the Grid when they don't seem to see eye to eye about anything, he's very good at leaving those emotions and stresses behind, not letting them impact their relationship at home – something he's told her has taken him years of practice. It shows; he's far better at it than she is. She frequently finds herself still feeling miffed when she gets home, needing a relaxing bath or shower to release the tension and her irritation with him, and even then, a really good snog is usually necessary for her to let the disagreement go completely – whether it's on the same evening or the following one – a fact that Harry worked out quite quickly, as he always comes round to hers now after a difficult day on the Grid, to share a drink and some rather passionate kisses that dispel the tension, or at least transform it into another kind of tension entirely.

She smiles now as he pulls back, thinking of tonight and all the delicious possibilities it will open up for them for dealing with work tensions in the future.

“What are you smiling at?” he murmurs, eyes on her face.

“I was thinking,” she begins, running her gloved fingers down the lapels of his coat and looking up at him through her eyelashes, but she doesn't get any further before they're interrupted.

“Dad!” someone calls from behind him, and as Harry turns from her to face the entrance of the building again, she sees Catherine Townsend smiling and walking briskly towards them. “I thought that was you,” she says.

Harry's smiling broadly too now and, when she reaches his side and kisses his cheek, he briefly wraps his arms around her. “Hello, Catherine,” he says.

“Hi,” she says brightly. “Isn't it a gorgeous day?!” And without waiting for an answer, she turns towards her and says, “Hello. You must be Ruth. I'm Catherine. Graham's big sister. I've heard so much about you.” Ruth is so surprised by this that she takes a moment to react and take the hand Catherine's offering her.

“And I about you,” she replies, shaking her hand and smiling warmly. Beside her, she notes that Harry's beaming. “It's nice to finally meet you.”

“And you. Anyone who makes sure Dad fulfils his family obligations and comes to Graham's wedding,” she teases with an impish glance at her father, “deserves a medal if you ask me. It's a shame Dad couldn't have met you years ago.”

Ruth feels herself blush, unused to such praise – though she knows Catherine's really just teasing her father – and feeling that she certainly doesn't deserve it, especially since she _di_ _d_ meet Harry years ago and actually broke his heart. “Well, I...” she stammers, trying to regain her equilibrium, but before she can finish the sentence, the arrival of someone else distracts them all.

“Hello, Harry,” the woman says coolly. “Long time no see.” She's slightly taller than her, also a brunette who clearly dyes her hair as she's around Harry's age, without a single grey hair to show for it.

Beside her, she feels Harry tense and, when he speaks, she understands why. “Jane. How are you?” _This would be the ex then._ Ruth swallows uncomfortably, but makes sure her face remains open and friendly. She's been dreading this meeting – this one and meeting Catherine for the first time, though thankfully she had nothing to worry about there. She'd even felt a little nervous about seeing Graham again, but there's no need for them all to know this. She's a spook, after all, and a good one at that.

“I'm fine. Are you going to introduce us?”

“By all means,” he murmurs then pointedly turns to her first. “Ruth, this is Jane – Graham and Catherine's mother. Jane, my partner, Ruth.”

_Partner._

She likes the sound of that. They _are_ partners – partners at work, partners at home, even if they're not yet lovers. But she plans to remedy that anyway, tonight, at the hotel. She's sure she'll not have to work hard to seduce him; he's been waiting for this as eagerly as she has, perhaps more so. She blinks, dragging her mind back to the present.

“Pleased to meet you,” she says, holding out her hand. “You must be so proud of Graham today.”

“Yes,” she agrees, clasping her hand briefly. “After everything,” here she gives Harry a harsh look, “it's good to finally see him happy.”

“Where's Robin?” Harry asks, his voice taking on a hard edge that makes her reach for his hand, clasping it and giving it a gentle squeeze. She can't imagine holding onto a grudge for so long, but clearly Jane hasn't forgiven Harry any of his failings. She supposes it must be difficult to watch your children suffer without feeling the need to blame _someone_. Harry has blamed himself for years and it seems that Jane has too. In her experience, however, it's rarely one person's fault when a relationship sours and implodes.

“He couldn't make it.”

There's a glint in Harry's eye that tells her he knows something more about this – perhaps that Jane's second marriage isn't going any better than the first – but she doesn't think this is the time or place for an argument between the parents of one of the grooms, so she gently squeezes Harry's hand again. He drops his gaze to hers and she sees his eyes soften as she frowns at him and gently shakes her head. Catherine is watching them closely and smiling, her eyes sparkling in much the same way that Harry's do, and it surprises her that she's so open to her father finding happiness and love again. Then again, she's a woman. Perhaps all girls adore their fathers.

“Shall we go inside?” Catherine suggests after the awkward silence stretches on for a few moments.

There is a chill in the air that wasn't there a moment ago and even the sun seems to be feeling it, its rays not nearly as bright and cheerful as before. She can't imagine what it must have been like for Graham and Catherine growing up in a home with such coldness emanating from their parents. As hard as it is for children to deal with a divorce, it seems to have certainly been for the best – she's sure if Harry and Jane had stayed together it would have been much worse for all concerned.

Catherine takes her mother by the arm and leads her towards the entrance, allowing them to follow at a more leisurely pace behind them, her hand tucked into the crook of Harry's elbow where he covers it with his own. “Alright?” he asks softly.

“Fine.” She smiles. “I like Catherine. You have kind, beautiful children, Harry.”

“I know.” He beams with pride for a moment before his expression turns troubled. “I just wish...” He sighs.

“Don't do that, Harry,” she tells him gently. “They're wonderful people because of you too. You may not have been able to be as much a part of their lives as you wish now, but don't diminish your role in how wonderful they've turned out to be. You love them and you helped shape them into the people they are today.”

He smiles down at her and squeezes her hand. “I don't deserve you,” he whispers.

“Poppycock,” she replies, tugging him down so she can reach to kiss his cheek. “You're wonderful and you know it.”

They enter the building and have another cup of mulled wine each to warm up before entering the room where the marriage is to take place. It is beautifully restored and decorated, and she can't help admiring it as Harry leads her to the front, where Graham and Greg are standing, straightening each other's ties, faces glowing with love, eyes dancing joyfully.

“Look at them,” she murmurs. “They look so very happy.”

“They do,” Harry agrees, lifting his left hand to cover hers and squeezing it gently. “If Graham's half as happy as I am, he's a very lucky man.”

She smiles, lifting her eyes to his and saying, “I think he is. Lucky _and_ happy. You have identical expressions on your faces, you know, when he looks at Greg and you look at me.”

She sees Harry's ears turn pick at that as he purses his lips, but they've reached the front of the room now and he turns away from her to his son and Greg, wringing each of their hands and giving them each a pat on the back as he wishes them good luck before they take their seats and wait for it all to begin.

The ceremony itself is beautiful as are the couple's vows and there's not a dry eye in the house by the time it's over and Graham and Greg share their first kiss as newly-weds. The reception is just down the road, so they don't have to go far at all for the wedding breakfast. It's a buffet meal with plenty of wine and dancing. Greg and Graham lead the way to the dance floor to much applause, but are quickly joined by others, including her and Harry.

Dancing is something she enjoys very much in Harry's arms and, though they mostly do a slow shuffle of an evening at home, recently they've started to branch out to something a little more energetic that involves a few turns and a little more coordination between them. They've got into their rhythm as a couple and that's one of the reasons why she feels tonight is _the_ night to take it to the next level.

After a few dances together, they grab some food and find their seats, filling their empty stomachs and quenching their thirst with wine. It's a large table that fits all of them – her and Harry, Graham and Greg, Greg's sister, brother and Catherine and their dates, Greg's mum and step-father and, thankfully as far from them as possible, Jane.

They make small talk and, when others ask what they do, they mention DEFRA. It's rather pleasant in fact to pretend to be normal for a few hours, talk about ordinary things, laugh at silly anecdotes, relax with Harry's arm round the back of her chair, eat good food and drink good wine. Even Harry seems to be enjoying himself more than she expected him to, but perhaps that's just because he has her by his side and doesn't have to hide his love for her. It's stressful at work, and even away from it in London, where the chances of being seen and recognised are so much greater. She's been very keen to keep their relationship a secret and Harry's not objected, agreeing that it would be for the best, at least at the beginning. She rather thinks he's worried about her safety were her association with him to become widely known, especially since she lives apart from him and without the level of security that he enjoys as Head of Section.

“May I have this dance?” Greg asks, pulling her thoughts back into the present. “That is, if you don't mind, Harry?”

She's not at all convinced she'd have said yes to his request, but now she feels she has to, her eyes flashing as she replies rather forcefully. “I'm my own person, Greg. Harry has nothing to do with it. So, yes, thank you. I'd love to dance.”

Greg looks a little alarmed now and, when she looks at Harry, she's sure he's hiding a smile. “Of course you are,” he says soothingly. “Enjoy yourself.”

“I will. Come on, Greg.” And with that she walks to the dance floor, feeling her cheeks heat up in embarrassment at her outburst. Poor Greg. He'd meant well, had only been trying to endear himself to his new father-in-law really. “I'm sorry,” she tells him once they've reached the dance floor. “My feminist sensibilities were a little offended.”

“No, no,” he replies quickly. “You were quite right. I don't know what I was thinking.”

“That you want Harry to like you, I imagine.”

He smiles bashfully and reaches for her hand, beginning to dance with her as he agrees. “That _was_ rather transparent, wasn't it?”

“He does like you, Greg,” she reassures him. “You're a good man and you make Graham happy. That's all he cares about really. But if you want my advise, just be yourself and he'll respect you all the more for it. He's never been impressed by people bending over backwards to please him.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” Greg murmurs, looking a little deflated, but it doesn't take long for him to rally, smiling mischievously and adding, “I guess I should start by relaxing and having fun dancing with you then, even though I know he's watching me like a hawk.”

She laughs in surprise, sure that Harry is, in fact, doing exactly that, even if he's trying to hide it. “Now that's a plan I can get behind,” she says, allowing herself to let go and just enjoy. Greg is a good dancer and it doesn't take them long to find their rhythm. The music is quick and energetic and the kind of thing that Harry could never dance to even if he wished to because of his bad knee.

The next song is slower, so after checking with her if she'd like to continue, Greg rests his hand on her waist and they begin to move, chatting quietly away about books and literature that they both adore. Graham joins them on the dance floor with his mother, and after the end of the song, they swap, Greg going off to do his best to impress his mother-in-law, while Graham takes her hand and spins her a few times, the rhythm of this song a little faster than the one that came before.

She laughs as she almost stumbles into his arms again and he steadies her, his movements quicker than Greg's had been, taking her by surprise.

“Alright?” he asks, sounding just like his father.

“Fine. Sorry.” She smiles up at him, masking her embarrassment.

“You're alright. I'll go a little slower,” and with that he begins to move again, gently and firmly guiding her with a skill that makes her suspect he's had some training as a dancer.

“You're very good at this,” she says with surprise as he leads her in a another spin that she's convinced she'd never have managed to execute with anyone else – she's not naturally graceful at all, but rather clumsy and uncoordinated.

He smiles, then asks mischievously, “Better than my father?”

She laughs. “That's hardly a fair comparison, Graham, when he's got a bit of a dodgy knee.”

“I'll take that as a yes then,” is his reply before he spins her round once more.

“If you tell him, I'll deny it.”

He chuckles. “I wouldn't dream of it.”

“Have you taken classes?”

“Yes,” he says. There's a short pause, then he confesses. “My dream is to become a successful actor.”

“Well, if you can act as well as you can dance, I'm sure you'll succeed, Graham,” she replies, pleased that he's opening up to her like this.

“Thank you.” He seems to hesitate, then he adds, “But please don't tell my father.” He looks a little worried now, as if he hadn't thought of the implications of confessing his secret to her.

She frowns. “Why not?”

“He won't approve. It's not exactly as stable career path, is it?”

“Maybe not,” she concedes, “but if it's something you love, I'm sure he'll support you.”

Graham looks doubtful, but she figures she's done all she can to make him consider the possibility of confiding in his father and it's time to reassure him instead. “Your secret's safe with me until you become famous,” she says. “Then I'm afraid even I won't be able to help you.”

He smiles. “Thank you.”

The music changes to a slower pace again, so they move closer to each other, their hands positioned in a waltz hold. “He might be able to help you though,” she suggests after a moment. “I'm sure he probably has contacts he could use to further your career.”

He frowns at that and shakes his head. “I don't want to use his contacts. If I succeed I'll do so on my own merit and not because my father threatened someone with consequences.”

It's her turn to frown up at him. “I wasn't suggesting that, Graham. I was just pointing out that he knows a lot of people. Perhaps he knows someone, who knows someone, who'll arrange an audition. That's all.”

“Right.” He looks distant and a little embarrassed now, and she feels like she's lost the connection they've just made and it saddens her.

“May I cut in?” Catherine's voice interrupts. “I have yet to dance with my little brother.”

She sees Graham smile and, as she turns to face Catherine, she realises that she's actually dancing with her father.

“By all means,” she replies, the warmth in Harry's gaze melting her heart. “Thank you, Graham,” she says, offering him a smile that he returns.

“Thank _you_ , Ruth,” he replies, then turns to his sister. “I've not been little in over a decade, Cath,” he says, amusement in his eyes, and it's true – he's a good head taller than her.

“You'll always be little, Gray,” she counters, then changes the subject. “How are the riding lessons coming along?”

Graham makes a face and steers her away from them as she settles in Harry's arms, wrapping her arms around him and resting her head on his shoulder, feeling so glad suddenly to have him back that she doesn't think anything of it – standing so close to him in front of all these people.

“Alright?” he asks softly.

“Wonderful,” she sighs.

“Good.”

It is good. It's amazing, in fact, being so near him, his body moving close to hers, her senses flooding with the essence of him, and all she can think about is how much she loves him and wants him.

“Harry?” she whispers softly.

“Mmmm?” he hums.

“I'm ready.”

“Ready for what?”

She doesn't want to say it. The words seem crude somehow and lacking in the depth and meaning that making love will have for them after... _because_ of everything that was, and is, and happened between them.

She lifts her head from his shoulder, her eyes finding his, her gaze direct and open as she wills him to understand her meaning.

He does. He's Harry.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice a little husky, betraying his emotions though nothing else does, save for his gorgeous eyes that are suddenly filled with hope and longing.

“Yes.”

Her heart is hammering wildly now that she's told him, committed herself to this course of action even though nothing's changed really, except perhaps his eyes that are now looking at her with a mixture of adoration and hunger. He purses his lips to hide his smile though the corners of his mouth still turn up defiantly, giving him an adorable expression and making her want to kiss him, though she can't in front of all these people.

He has no such qualms.

 

It's passionate and intense and she's sure every eye is on them, yet she's not sure how to react when half of her wants to demand that he wait until they're alone and the other half just wants to snog him senseless and more.

“Let's go,” he growls when he pulls back, attempting to lead her off the dance floor.

“Harry, wait,” she objects, steering him towards the drinks table instead of their seats, hoping to step out of the lime-light and have a quiet conversation about this without everyone's eyes on them. She can feel Jane's cold gaze on her back though she's not looked to confirm it, not to mention Catherine's curious and Graham's speculative ones.

“We can't just leave, Harry,” she objects once they've reached the table and she's picked up a glass of wine for each of them. “We have to at least wait until after Greg and Graham go.”

He frowns, then sighs. “Fine,” he says after taking a large mouthful of the wine she's handed him for fortification. He eyes the glass with an expression that convinces her he's wishing it were whisky, then lifts his gaze back to hers. “But we're leaving the moment-”

“Thirty minutes, Harry,” she says firmly. “Thirty minutes after they do, we can go.”

“Ruth-” he begins to object, but she interrupts him again.

“Please, Harry. I won't be able to enjoy it if I think people here are speculating about why we left so early.” She hates that it matters to her so much, but it does and there's nothing she can do about it. “Don't make me regret telling you.”

“Telling me?” His gaze is intense again. “You were planning-”

“To seduce you. Yes,” she huffs, cheeks flaming as she lifts her chin and stares defiantly at him.

He smiles this time, his gaze softening as he lifts his free hand to her face, cupping her cheek and kissing her softly. “You seduced me five years ago, Ruth,” he murmurs, “and I've been yours ever since. I'm all yours... whenever you want me.”

She sighs and steps closer, burying her face in his chest as she slips one arm around him, feeling him reciprocate and press his lips softly against her forehead. Could he _be_ any more romantic? Five years. How is it possible, she wonders, that he should want her for so long, that he has not yet given up on her even after she'd been away for years? It's remarkable and wonderful really and, she hopes, a sign that what they have is meant to last.

They've waited a long time for this, but they deserve it, after everything. They deserve every bit of happiness and love they've found together. No more guilt. No more regrets, she's decided.

So they'll wait another hour or so before they leave and go to their hotel where they'll make passionate love, and it'll be wonderful and perfect because it's them and they're together. And maybe tomorrow morning, Harry will want to stay in bed with her instead of getting up the moment he wakes, to cuddle and make love again before breakfast and the drive back to London where they can spend the rest of the day together before returning to work on Monday. And maybe soon they'll decide that living apart is too much hassle and they'll take the next step and move in together, maybe they'll even get married one day for she's sure that, as long as Harry draws breath, she'll not want or love another man like this.

She sighs in contentment and presses a quick kiss against his heart before stepping out of his arms again. “Shall we?” she says.

“By all means,” he replies, taking her hand and moving back towards their table.

 

 

 


End file.
